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CRAYON MISCELLANY 


BY WASHINGTON IRVING 



-Abbotsford 


&• P. PUTNAM’S SON 




HUDSON EDITION 


THE 

CRAYON MISCELLANY 


WASHINGTON IRVING 

%% 


THE AUTHOR’S REVISED EDITION 


COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME 


NEW YORK 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

27 and 29 West 23d Street 





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 
George P. Putnam, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New York. 



Contents, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 

CHAPTER I. 

PAGB 

The Pawnee Hunting-Grounds.—Travelling Companions.—A Com¬ 
missioner.—A Virtuoso.—A Seeker of Adventures.—A Gil Bias 
of the Frontier.—A Young Man’s Anticipations of Pleasure_ 17 

CHAPTER II. 

Anticipations disappointed.—New Plans.—Preparations to join an 
Exploring Party.—Departure from Fort Gibson.—Fording of 
the Verdigris.—An Indian Cavalier. 33 

CHAPTER III. 

An Indian Agency.—Riflemen.—Osages, Creeks, Trappers, Dogs, 
Horses, Half-breeds,—Beatte, the Huntsman. 38 

CHAPTER IY. 

The Departure. 33 

7 






8 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER V. 

PA8H 

Frontier Scenes.—A Lycurgus of the Border.—Lynch’s Law.—The 
Danger of finding a Horse.—The Young Osage. 36 

CHAPTER VL 

Trail of the Osage Hunters.—Departure of the Count and his Party. 

—A Deserted War-Camp.—A Vagrant Dog.—The Encampment. 42 

CHAPTER VII. 

Hews of the Rangers.—The Count and his Indian Squire.—Halt in 
the Woods.—Woodland Scene.—Osage Village.—Osage Visitors 
at our Evening Camp. 46 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Honey Camp. 55 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Bee-Hunt. 58 

CHAPTER X. 

Amusements in the Camp.—Consultations.—Hunters’ Fare and Feast¬ 
ing.—Evening Scenes.—Camp Melody.—The Fate of an Ama¬ 
teur Owl. 64 

CHAPTER XL 

Breaking up of the Encampment.—Picturesque March.—Game.— 
Camp-Scenes.—Triumph of a Young Hunter.—Ill Success of 
Old Hunters.—Foul Murder of a Polecat. 71 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Crossing of the Arkansas. 79 









CONTENTS. 


9 


CHAPTER XIII. 

PAGE 

The Camp of the Glen.— Camp-Gossip. — Pawnees and their Habits. 

—A Hunter’s Adventure.—Horses found, and Men lost. 83 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Deer -Shooting.—Life on the Prairies.—Beautiful Encampment.— 
Hunter’s Luck.—Anecdotes of the Delawares and their Super¬ 
stitions . 93 

CHAPTER XV. 

The Search for the Elk.—Pawnee Stories. 101 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A. Sick-Camp.—The March.—The Disabled Horse.—Old Ryan and 
the Stragglers.—Symptoms of Change of Weather, and Change 
of Humors. 109 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Thunder-Storm on the Prairies.—The Storm-Encampment.—Night 
Scene.—Indian Stories.—A Frightened Horse. 116 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Grand Prairie.—Cliff Castle.—Buffalo Tracks.—Deer hunted by 
Wolves.—Cross Timber. 122 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Hunters’ Anticipations.—The Rugged Ford.—A Wild Horse. 128 

CHAPTER XX. 

The Camp of the Wild Horse.— Hunters’ Stories.—Habits of the 
Wild Horse.—The Half-breed and his Prize.—A Horse-Chase.— 

A Wild Spirit tamed. 134 










10 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXL 

PASS 

The Fording of the Red Fork.—The Dreary Forests of the “Cross 
Timber. ”—Buffalo . 143 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Alarm Camp. 148 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Beaver Dam.—Buffalo and Horse Tracks.—A Pawnee Trail.—Wild 
Horses.—The Young Hunter and the Bear.—Change of Route.. 159 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Scarcity of Bread.—Rencontre with Buffaloes.—Wild Turkeys.—Fall 
of a Buffalo Bull.. 165 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Ringing the Wild Horse.170 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Fording of the North Fork.—Dreary Scenery of the Cross Timber. 

—Scamper of Horses in the Night.—Osage War-Party.—Effects 
of a Peace Harangue.—Buffalo.—Wild Horse. 176 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

Foul-Weather Encampment.—Anecdotes of Bear-Hunting.—Indian 
Notions about Omens.—Scruples Respecting the Dead. 182 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A Secret Expedition.—Deer-Bleating.—Magic Balls. 193 









CONTENTS. 


11 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

PAGE 

The Grand Prairie.—A Buffalo Hunt.199 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A Comrade lost.—A Search for the Camp.—The Commissioner, the 
Wild Horse, and the Buffalo.—A Wolf Serenade. 210 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

A Hunt for a lost Comrade.,. 215 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

A Republic of Prairie-Dogs.. 221 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A Council in the Camp.—Reasons for Facing Homewards.—Horses 
lost.—Departure with a Detachment on the Homeward Route. 

—Swamp.—Wild Horse.—Camp-Scene by Night. — The Owl, 
Harbinger of Dawn.226 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


Old Creek Encampment.—Scarcity of Provisions.—Bad Weather. 

—Weary Marching.—A Hunter’s Bridge.236 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A Look-out for Land.—Hard Travelling and Hungry Halting.—A 
Frontier Farm-house.—Arrival at the Garrison. .249 









12 


CONTENTS . 


ABBOTSFORD. 

PAGB 

Abbotsford...253 

v 4 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 

Historical Notice. 335 

Arrival at the Abbey.347 

The Abbey Garden.355 

Plough Monday. 363 

Old Servants.368 

Superstitions of the Abbey. 374 

Annesley Hall. 385 

The Lake. 411 

Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest. 415 

The Rook Cell. 426 

The Little White Lady. 433 















Introduction. 


■ i: ~.AY IN G, since my return to the United States, 

made a wide and varied tour, for the gratifica¬ 
tion of my curiosity, it has been supposed that 
I did it for the purpose of writing a book; and it has 
more than once been intimated in the papers, that such a 
work was actually in the press, containing scenes and 
sketches of the Far West. 

These announcements, gratuitously made for me, be¬ 
fore I had put pen to paper, or even contemplated any¬ 
thing of the kind, have embarrassed me exceedingly. I 
have been like a poor actor, who finds himself announced 
for a part he had no thought of playing, and his appear¬ 
ance expected on the stage before he has committed a 
line to memory. 

I have always had a repugnance, amounting almost to 
disability, to write in the face of expectation; and, in the 
present instance, I was expected to write about a region 
fruitful of wonders and adventures, and which had al¬ 
ls 





16 


INTRODUCTION. 


ready been made tbe theme of spirit-stirring narratives 
from able pens, yet about which I had nothing wonderful 
or adventurous to offer. 

Since such, however, seems to be the desire of the 
public, and that they take sufficient interest in my wan¬ 
derings to deem them worthy of recital, I have hastened, 
as promptly as possible, to meet in some degree the ex¬ 
pectation which others have excited. For this purpose, 
I have, as it were, plucked a few leaves out of my memo¬ 
randum book, containing a month’s foray beyond the 
outposts of human habitation, into the wilderness of the 
Far West. It forms, indeed, but a small portion of an 
extensive tour; but it is an episode, complete as far as 
it goes. As such I offer it to the public with great diffi¬ 
dence. It is a simple narrative of every-day occurrences, 
such as happen to every one who travels the prairies. I 
have no wonders to describe, nor any moving accidents 
by flood or field to narrate; and as to those who look for 
a marvellous or adventurous story at my hands, I can 
only reply in the words of the weary knife-grinder: 
“ Story! God bless you, I have none to tell, sir.” 


A Tour on the Prairies. 


CHAPTER I. 


THB PAWNEE HUNTING-GROUNDS.—TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.—A COMMISSION' 
ER.—A VIRTUOSO.—A SEEKER OF ADVENTURES.—A GIL BLAS OF THE FRON¬ 
TIER.—A YOUNG MAN’S ANTICIPATIONS OF PLEASURE. 

N the often Taunted regions of the Far West, 
several hundred miles beyond the Mississippi, 
extends a vast tract of uninhabited country, 
Lere is neither to be seen the log house of the 
white man, nor the wigwam of the Indian. It consists 
of great grassy plains, interspersed with forests and 
groves, and clumps of trees, and watered by the Arkan¬ 
sas, the Grand Canadian, the Red River, and their tribu¬ 
tary streams. Over these fertile and verdant wastes still 
roam the elk, the buffalo, and the wild horse, in all their 
native freedom. These, in fact, are the hunting-grounds 
of the various tribes of the Far West. Hither repair the 
Osage, the Creek, the Delaware and other tribes that 
have linked themselves with civilization, and live within 

17 



where 


2 






IB 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


the vicinity of the white settlements. Here resort also 
the Pawnees, the Comanches, and other fierce and as yet 
independent tribes, the nomads of the prairies, or the 
inhabitants of the skirts of the Rocky Mountains. The 
regions I have mentioned form a debatable ground of 
these warring and vindictive tribes; none of them pre¬ 
sume to erect a permanent habitation within its borders. 
Their hunters and “braves” repair thither in numerous 
bodies during the season of game, throw up their tran¬ 
sient hunting-camps, consisting of light bowers covered 
with bark and skins, commit sad havoc among the innu¬ 
merable herds that graze the prairies, and having loaded 
themselves with venison and buffalo meat, warily retire 
from the dangerous neighborhood. These expeditions 
partake, always, of a warlike character; the hunters are 
all armed for action, offensive and defensive, and are 
bound to incessant vigilance. Should they, in their ex¬ 
cursions, meet the hunters of an adverse tribe, savage 
conflicts take place. Their encampments, too, are al¬ 
ways subject to be surprised by wandering war parties, 
and their hunters, when scattered in pursuit of game, to 
be captured or massacred by lurking foes. Mouldering 
skulls and skeletons, bleaching in some dark ravine or 
near the traces of a hunting-camp, occasionally mark 
the scene of a foregone act of blood, and let the wanderer 
know the dangerous nature of the region he is travers¬ 
ing. It is the purport of the following pages to narrate 
a month’s excursion to these noted hunting-grounds, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


19 


through a tract of country which had not as yet been 
explored by white men. 

It was early in October, 1832, that I arrived at Fort 
Gibson, a frontier post of the Far West, situated on the 
Neosho, or Grand Eiver, near its confluence with the 
Arkansas. I had been travelling for a month past, with 
a small party from St. Louis, up the banks of the Mis¬ 
souri, and along the frontier line of agencies and mis¬ 
sions, that extends from the Missouri to the Arkansas. 
Our party was headed by one of the Commissioners ap¬ 
pointed by the government of the United States to 
superintend the settlement of the Indian tribes migrat¬ 
ing from the east to the west of the Mississippi. In the 
discharge of his duties, he was thus visiting the various 
outposts of civilization. 

And here let me bear testimony to the merits of this 
worthy leader of our little band. He was a native of one 
of the towns of Connecticut, a man in whom a course of 
legal practice and political life had not been able to 
vitiate an innate simplicity and benevolence of heart. 
The greater part of his days had been passed in the 
bosom of his family and the society of deacons, elders, 
and selectmen, on the peaceful banks of the Connecticut; 
when suddenly he had been called to mount his steed, 
shoulder his rifle, and mingle among stark hunters, back¬ 
woodsmen, and naked savages, on the trackless wilds of 
the Far West. 

Another of my fellow-travellers was Mr. L., an Eng- 


% 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


lishman by birth, but descended from a foreign stock; 
and who had all the buoyancy and accommodating spirit 
of a native of the Continent. Having rambled over many 
countries, he had become, to a certain degree, a citizen 
of the world, easily adapting himself to any change. He 
was a man of a thousand occupations; a botanist, a geol¬ 
ogist, a hunter of beetles and butterflies, a musical ama¬ 
teur, a sketcher of no mean pretensions, in short, a 
complete virtuoso; added to which, he was a very inde¬ 
fatigable, if not always a very successful, sportsman. 
Never had a man more irons in the fire, and, conse¬ 
quently, never was man more busy nor more cheerful. 

My third fellow-traveller was one who had accom¬ 
panied the former from Europe, and travelled with him 
as his Telemachus ; being apt, like his prototype, to give 
occasional perplexity and disquiet to his Mentor. He 
was a young Swiss Count, scarce twenty-one years of age, 
full of talent and spirit, but galliard in the extreme, and 
prone to every kind of wild adventure. 

Having made this mention of my comrades, I must not 
pass over unnoticed a personage of inferior rank, but of 
all-pervading and prevalent importance,—the squire, the 
groom, the cook, the tent-man, in a word, the factotum, 
and, I may add, the universal meddler and marplot of our 
party. This was a little, swarthy, meagre, French creole, 
named Antoine, but familiarly dubbed Tonish,—a kind of 
Gil Bias of the frontiers, who had passed a scrambling 
life, sometimes among white men, sometimes among In- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


21 


dians; sometimes in the employ of traders, missionaries, 
and Indian agents; sometimes mingling with the Osage 
hunters. We picked him up at St. Louis, near which he 
has a small farm, an Indian wife, and a brood of half- 
blood children. According to his own account, however, 
he had a wife in every tribe; in fact, if all this little 
vagabond said of himself were to be believed, he was 
without morals, without caste, without creed, without 
country, and even without language; for he spoke a jar¬ 
gon of mingled French, English, and Osage. He was, 
withal, a notorious braggart, and a liar of the first water. 
It was amusing to hear him vapor and gasconade about 
his terrible exploits and hair-breadth escapes in war and 
hunting. In the midst of his volubility he was prone to 
be seized by a spasmodic gasping, as if the springs of his 
jaws were suddenly unhinged; but I am apt to think it 
was caused by some falsehood that stuck in his throat, 
for I generally remarked that immediately afterwards 
there bolted forth a lie of the first magnitude. 

Our route had been a pleasant one, quartering our¬ 
selves, occasionally, at the widely separated establish¬ 
ments of the Indian missionaries, but in general camp¬ 
ing out in the fine groves that border the streams, and 
sleeping under cover of a tent. During the latter part of 
our tour we had pressed forward in hopes of arriving in 
time at Fort Gibson, to accompany the Osage hunters on 
their autumnal visit to the buffalo prairies. Indeed the 
imagination of the young Count had become completely 


22 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


excited on the subject. The grand scenery and wild 
habits of the prairies had set his spirits madding, and 
the stories that little Tonish told him of Indian braves 
and Indian beauties, of hunting buffaloes and catching 
wild horses, had set him all agog for a dash into savage 
life. He was a bold and hard rider, and longed to be 
scouring the hunting grounds. It was amusing to hear 
his youthful anticipations of all that he was to see, and 
do, and enjoy, when mingling among the Indians and par¬ 
ticipating in their hardy adventures; and it was still more 
amusing to listen to the gasconadings of little Tonish, 
who volunteered to be his faithful squire in all his per¬ 
ilous undertakings; to teach him how to catch the wild 
horse, bring down the buffalo, and win the smiles of 
Indian princesses;—“And if we can only get sight of 
a prairie on fire ! ” said the young Count—“ By Gar, I’ll 
set one on fire myself! ” cried the little Frenchman. 


CHAPTER H. 


ANTICIPATIONS DISAPPOINTED.—NEW PLANS.—PREPARA iTONS TO JOIN AN 
EXPLORING PARTY.—DEPARTURE FROM FORT GIBSON.—FORDING OF THE 
VERDIGRIS.—AN INDIAN CAVALIER. 

HE anticipations of a young man are prone to 
meet with disappointment. Unfortunately for 
the Count’s scheme of wild campaigning, before 
we reached the end of our journey, we heard that the 
Osage hunters had set forth upon their expedition to 
the buffalo grounds. The Count still determined, if pos¬ 
sible, to follow on their track and overtake them, and for 
this purpose stopped short at the Osage Agency, a few 
miles distant from Fort Gibson, to make inquiries and 
preparations. His travelling companion, Mr. L., stopped 
with him; while the Commissioner and myself proceeded 
to Fort Gibson, followed by the faithful and veracious 
Tonish. I hinted to him his promises to follow the Count 
in his campaignings, but I found the little varlet had a 
keen eye to self-interest. He was aware that the Com¬ 
missioner, from his official duties, would remain for a 
long time in the country, and be likely to give him 
permanent employment, while the sojourn of the Count 

33 







24 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


would be but transient. The gasconading of the little 
braggart was suddenly therefore at an end. He spoke 
not another word to the young Count about Indians, buf¬ 
faloes, and wild horses, but putting himself tacitly in the 
train of the Commissioner, jogged silently after us to the 
garrison. 

On arriving at the fort, however, a new chance pre¬ 
sented itself for a cruise on the prairies. We learnt that 
a company of mounted rangers, or riflemen, had departed 
but three days previous, to make a wide exploring tour, 
from the Arkansas to the Red River, including a part of 
the Pawnee hunting-grounds, where no party of white 
men had as yet penetrated. Here, then, was an oppor¬ 
tunity of ranging over those dangerous and interesting 
regions under the safeguard of a powerful escort; for the 
Commissioner, in virtue of his office, could claim the ser¬ 
vice of this newly raised corps of riflemen, and the coun¬ 
try they were to explore was destined for the settlement of 
some of the migrating tribes connected with his mission. 

Our plan was promptly formed and put into execution. 
A couple of Creek Indians were sent off express, by the 
commander of Fort Gibson, to overtake the rangers and 
bring them to a halt until the Commissioner and his 
party should be able to join them. As we should have 
a march of three or four days through a wild country, 
before we could overtake the company of rangers, an 
escort of fourteen mounted riflemen, under the command 
of a lieutenant, was assigned us. 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


25 


We sent word to the young Count and Mr. L. at the 
Osage Agency, of our new plan and prospects, and in¬ 
vited them to accompany us. The Count, however, could 
not forego the delights he had promised himself in min¬ 
gling with absolutely savage life. In reply, he agreed to 
keep with us until we should come upon the trail of the 
Osage hunters, when it was his fixed resolve to strike off 
into the wilderness in pursuit of them; and his faithful 
Mentor, though he grieved at the madness of the scheme, 
was too stanch a friend to desert him. A general rendez¬ 
vous of our party and escort was appointed, for the fol¬ 
lowing morning, at the Agency. 

We now made all arrangements for prompt depart¬ 
ure. Our baggage had hitherto been transported on a 
light wagon, but we were now to break our way through 
an untravelled country, cut up by rivers, ravines, and 
thickets, where a vehicle of the kind would be a com¬ 
plete impediment. We were to travel on horseback, in 
hunters’ style, and with as little encumbrance as pos¬ 
sible. Our baggage, therefore, underwent a rigid and 
most abstemious reduction. A pair of saddle-bags, and 
those by no means crammed, sufficed for each man’s 
scanty wardrobe, and, with his great-coat, were to be 
carried upon the steed he rode. The rest of the baggage 
was placed on pack-horses. Each one had a bear-skin 
and a couple of blankets for bedding, and there was a 
tent to shelter us in case of sickness or bad weather. 
We took care to provide ourselves with flour, coffee, and 


26 


CRA TON MISCELLANY. 


sugar, together with a small supply of salt pork for 
emergencies; for our main subsistence we were to de¬ 
pend upon the chase. 

Such of our horses as had not been tired out in our 
recent journey, were taken with us as pack-horses, or 
supernumeraries; but as we were going on a long and 
rough tour, where there would be occasional hunting, 
and where, in case of meeting with hostile savages, the 
safety of the rider might depend upon the goodness of 
his steed, we took care to be well mounted. I procured 
a stout silver-gray; somewhat rough, but stanch and 
powerful; and retained a hardy pony which I had 
hitherto ridden, and which, being somewhat jaded, was 
suffered to ramble along with the pack-horses, to be 
mounted only in case of emergency. 

All these arrangements being made, we left Fort Gib¬ 
son on the morning of the tenth of October, and crossing 
the river in the front of it, set off for the rendezvous 
at the Agency. A ride of a few miles brought us to the 
ford of the Verdigris, a wild rocky scene overhung with 
forest-trees. We descended to the bank of the river and 
crossed in straggling file, the horses stepping cautiously 
from rock to rock, and in a manner feeling about for a 
foothold beneath the rushing and brawling stream. 

Our little Frenchman, Tonish, brought up the rear 
with the pack-horses. He was in high glee, having ex~ 
perienced a kind of promotion. In our journey hith¬ 
erto he had driven the wagon, which he seemed to con- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


27 


sider a very inferior employ ; now he was master of the 
horse. 

He sat perched like a monkey behind the pack on one 
of the horses; he sang, he shouted, he yelped like an In¬ 
dian, and ever and anon blasphemed the loitering pack- 
horses in his jargon of mingled French, English, and 
Osage, which not one of them could understand. 

As we were crossing the ford we saw oh the opposite 
shore a Creek Indian on horseback. He had paused to 
reconnoitre us from the brow of a rock, and formed a 
picturesque object, in unison with the wild scenery 
around him. He wore a bright-blue hunting-shirt trim¬ 
med with scarlet fringe; a gayly colored handkerchief 
was bound round his head something like a turban, with 
one end hanging down beside his ear; he held a long 
rifle in his hand, and looked like a wild Arab on the 
prowl. Our loquacious and ever-meddling little French¬ 
man called out to him in his Babylonish jargon, but the 
savage, having satisfied his curiosity, tossed his hand in 
the air, turned the head of his steed, and galloping along 
the shore soon disappeared among the trees. 


CHAPTEK HL 


AN INDIAN AGENCY.—RIFLEMEN.—OSAGES, CREEKS, TRAPPERS, DOGS, HORSES^ 
HALF-BREEDS.—BEATTE, THE HUNTSMAN. 

AVING crossed the ford, we »oon reached the 
Osage Agency where Col. Chotean has his of¬ 
fices and magazines, for the dispatch of Indian 
affairs, and the distribution of presents and supplies. It 
consisted of a few log houses on the banks of the river, 
and presented a motley frontier scene. Here was our 
escort awaiting our arrival; some were on horseback, 
some on foot, some seated on the trunks of fallen trees, 
some shooting at a mark. They were a heterogeneous 
crew: some in frock-coats made of green blankets; others 
in leathern hunting-shirts, but the most part in mar¬ 
vellously ill-cut garments, much the worse for wear, and 
evidently put on for rugged service. 

Near by these was a group of Osages: stately fellows; 
stern and simple in garb and aspect. They wore no 
ornaments; their dress consisted merely of blankets, 
leggins, and moccasins. Their heads were bare; their 
hair was cropped close, excepting a bristling ridge on 
the top, like the crest of a helmet, with a long scalp-lock 

28 







A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


29 


hanging behind. They had fine Eoman countenances, 
and broad deep chests; and, as they generally wore their 
blankets wrapped round their loins, so as to leave the 
bust and arms bare, they looked like so many noble 
bronze figures. The Osages are the finest-looking In¬ 
dians I have ever seen in the West. They have not 
yielded sufficiently as yet to the influence of civilization 
to lay by their simple Indian garb, or to lose the habits 
of the hunter and the warrior; and their poverty pre¬ 
vents their indulging in much luxury of apparel. 

In contrast to these was a gayly dressed party of 
Creeks. There is something, at the first glance, quite 
Oriental in the appearance of this tribe. They dress in 
calico hunting-shirts, of various brilliant colors, deco¬ 
rated with bright fringes, and belted with broad girdles, 
embroidered with beads; they have leggins of dressed 
deer-skins, or of green or scarlet cloth, with embroidered 
knee-bands and tassels ; their moccasins are fancifully 
wrought and ornamented, and they wear gaudy handker¬ 
chiefs tastefully bound round their heads. 

Beside these, there was a sprinkling of trappers, hunt¬ 
ers, half-breeds, creoles, negroes of every hue ; and all 
that other rabble rout of nondescript beings that keep 
about the frontiers, between civilized and savage life, as 
those equivocal birds, the bats, hover about the confines 
of light and darkness. 

The little hamlet of the Agency was in a complete 
bustle ; the blacksmith’s shed, in particular, was a scene 


30 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


of preparation; a strapping negro was shoeing a horse; 
two half-breeds were fabricating iron spoons in which to 
melt lead for bullets. An old trapper, in leathern hunt¬ 
ing-frock and moccasins, had placed his rifle against a 
work-bench, while he superintended the operation, and 
gossiped about his hunting exploits; several large dogs 
were lounging in and out of the shop, or sleeping in 
the sunshine, while a little cur, with head cocked on one 
side, and one ear erect, was watching, with that curiosity 
common to little dogs, the process of shoeing the horse, 
as if studying the art, or waiting for his turn to be shod. 

We found the Count and his companion, the Virtuoso, 
ready for the march. As they intended to overtake the 
Osages, and pass some time in hunting the buffalo and 
the wild horse, they had provided themselves accord¬ 
ingly ; having, in addition to the steeds which they used 
for travelling, others of prime quality, which were to be 
led when on the march, and only to be mounted for the 
chase. 

They had, moreover, engaged the services of a young 
man named Antoine, a half-breed of French and Osage 
origin. He was to be a kind of Jack-of-all-work ; to 
cook, to hunt, and to take care of the horses ; but he had 
a vehement propensity to do nothing, being one of the 
worthless brood engendered and brought up among the 
missions. He was, moreover, a little spoiled by being 
really a handsome young fellow, an Adonis of the fron¬ 
tier, and still worse by fancying himself highly con- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


31 


nected, his sister being concubine to an opulent white 
trader! 

For our own parts, the Commissioner and myself 
were desirous, before setting out, to procure another at¬ 
tendant well versed in wood-craft, who might serve us 
as a hunter: for our little Frenchman would have his 
hands full when in camp, in cooking, and on the march, 
in taking care of the pack-horses. Such a one presented 
himself, or rather was recommended to us, in Pierre 
Beatte, a half-breed of French and Osage parentage. 
We were assured that he was acquainted with all parts 
of the country, having traversed it in all directions, both 
in hunting and war parties; that he would be of use 
both as guide and interpreter, and that he was a first- 
rate hunter. 

I confess I did not like his looks when he was first 
presented to me. He was lounging about, in an old 
hunting - frock and metasses or leggins, of deer-skin, 
soiled and greased, and almost japanned by constant 
use. He was apparently about thirty-six years of age, 
square and strongly built. His features were not bad, 
being shaped not unlike those of Napoleon, but sharp¬ 
ened up, with high Indian cheek-bones. Perhaps the 
dusky greenish hue of his complexion aided his resem¬ 
blance to an old bronze bust I had seen of the Emperor. 
He had, however, a sullen, saturnine expression, set off 
by a slouched woollen hat, and elf-locks that hung about 
his ears. 


32 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Such was the appearance of the man, and his manners 
were equally unprepossessing. He was cold and laconic; 
made no promises or professions; stated the terms he 
required for the services of himself and his horse, which 
we thought rather high, but showed no disposition to 
abate them, nor any anxiety to secure our employ. He 
had altogether more of the red than the white man in 
his composition; and, as I had been taught to look upon 
all half-breeds with distrust, as an uncertain and faith¬ 
less race, I would gladly have dispensed with the ser¬ 
vices of Pierre Beatte. We had no time, however, to 
look out for any one more to our taste, and had to make 
an arrangement with him on the spot. He then set 
about making his preparations for the journey, promis¬ 
ing to join us at our evening’s encampment. 

One thing was yet wanting to fit me out for the Prai¬ 
ries—a thoroughly trustworthy steed; I was not yet 
mounted to my mind. The gray I had bought, though 
strong and serviceable, was rough. At the last moment 
I succeeded in getting an excellent animal: a dark bay; 
powerful, active, generous-spirited, and in capital condi¬ 
tion. I mounted him with exultation, and transferred 
the silver-gray to Tonish, who was in such ecstasies at 
finding himself so completely en Cavalier , that I feared 
he might realize the ancient and well-known proverb of 
“ a beggar on horseback.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE DEPARTURE, 



HE long-drawn notes of a bugle at length gave 
the signal for departure. The rangers filed 
off in a straggling line of march through the 
woods: we were soon on horseback and following on, but 
were detained by the irregularity of the pack-horses. 
They were unaccustomed to keep the line, and straggled 
from side to side among the thickets, in spite of all the 
pesting and bedeviling of Tonish; who, mounted on his 
gallant gray, with a long rifle on his shoulder, worried 
after them, bestowing a superabundance of dry blows 
and curses. 

We soon, therefore, lost sight of our escort, but man¬ 
aged to keep on their track, thridding lofty forests, and 
entangled thickets, and passing by Indian wigwams and 
negro huts, until towards dusk we arrived at a frontier 
farm-house, owned by a settler of the name of Berryhill. 
It was situated on a hill, below which the rangers had 
encamped in a circular grove, on the margin of a stream. 
The master of the house received us civilly, but could 
offer us no accommodation, for sickness prevailed in his 
3 33 



34 


CRA TON MISCELLANY ,. 


family. He appeared himself to be in no very thriving 
condition, for though bulky in frame, he had a sallow, 
unhealthy complexion, and a whiffling double voice, 
shifting abruptly from a treble to a thorough-bass. 

Finding his log house was a mere hospital, crowded 
with invalids, we ordered our tent to be pitched in the 
farm-yard. 

We had not been long encamped, when our recently 
engaged attendant, Beatte, the Osage half-breed, made 
his appearance. He came mounted on one horse and 
leading another, which seemed to be well packed with 
supplies for the expedition. Beatte was evidently an 
“ old soldier,” as to the art of taking care of himself and 
looking out for emergencies. Finding that he was in 
government employ, being engaged by the Commis¬ 
sioner, he had drawn rations of flour and bacon, and put 
them up so as to be weather-proof. In addition to the 
horse for the road and for ordinary service, which was a 
rough, hardy animal, he had another for hunting. This 
was of a mixed breed like himself, being a cross of 
the domestic stock with the wild horse of the prai¬ 
ries ; and a noble steed it was, of generous spirit, fine 
action, and admirable bottom. He had taken care to 
have his horses well shod at the Agency. He came 
prepared at all points for war or hunting: his rifle 
on his shoulder, his powder-horn and bullet-pouch 
at his side, his hunting-knife stuck in his belt, and 
coils of cordage at his saddle-bow, which we were told 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


35 


were lariats, or noosed cords, used in catching the wild 
horse. 

Thus equipped and provided, an Indian hunter on a 
prairie is like a cruiser on the ocean, perfectly indepen¬ 
dent of the world, and competent to self-protection and 
self-maintenance. He can cast himself loose from every 
one, shape his own course, and take care of his own 
fortunes. I thought Beatte seemed to feel his inde¬ 
pendence, and to consider himself superior to us all, now 
that we were launching into the wilderness. He main¬ 
tained a half proud, half sullen look, and great taci¬ 
turnity ; and his first care was to unpack his horses and 
put them in safe quarters for the night. His whole de¬ 
meanor was in perfect contrast to our vaporing, chatter¬ 
ing, bustling little Frenchman. The latter, too, seemed 
jealous of this new-comer. He whispered to us that 
these half-breeds were a touchy, capricious people, little 
to be depended upon; that Beatte had evidently come 
prepared to take care of himself, and that, at any mo¬ 
ment in the course of our tour, he would be liable to 
take some sudden disgust or affront, and abandon us at a 
moment’s warning: having the means of shifting for him¬ 
self, and being perfectly at home on the prairies. 


CHAPTER V. 


FRONTIER SCENES.—A LYCURGUS OF THE BORDER.—LYNCH’S LAW.—THE DAN 
GER OF FINDING A HORSE.—THE YOUNG OSAGE. 



N tlie following morning, (Oct. 11,) we were on 
the march by half-past seven o’clock, and rode 
through deep rich bottoms of alluvial soil, over¬ 
grown with redundant vegetation, and trees of an enor¬ 
mous size. Our route lay parallel to the west bank of 
the Arkansas, on the borders of which river, near the 
confluence of the Red Fork, we expected to overtake the 
main body of rangers. For some miles the country was 
sprinkled with Creek villages and farm-houses; the in¬ 
habitants of which appeared to have adopted, with con¬ 
siderable facility, the rudiments of civilization, and to 
have thriven in consequence. Their farms were well 
stocked, and their houses had a look of comfort and 
abundance. 

We met with numbers of them returning from one of 
their grand games of ball, for which their nation is cele¬ 
brated. Some were on foot, some on horseback; the 
latter, occasionally, with gayly dressed females behind 
them. They are a well-made race, muscular and closely 

36 





A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


37 


knit, with well-turned thighs and legs. They have a 
Gypsy fondness for brilliant colors and gay decorations, 
and are bright and fanciful objects when seen at a dis¬ 
tance on the prairies. One had a scarlet handkerchief 
bound round his head, surmounted with a tuft of black 
feathers like a cock’s tail; another had a white handker¬ 
chief, with red feathers; while a third, for want of a 
plume, had stuck in his turban a brilliant bunch of 
sumach. 

On the verge of the wilderness we paused to inquire 
our way at a log house owned by a white settler or 
squatter; a tall, rawboned, old fellow, with red hair, a 
lank lantern visage, and an inveterate habit of winking 
with one eye, as if everything he said was of knowing 
import. He was in a towering passion. One of his 
horses was missing; he was sure it had been stolen in 
the night by a straggling party of Osages encamped in a 
neighboring swamp ; but he would have satisfaction! He 
would make an example of the villains. He had accord¬ 
ingly caught down his rifle from the wall, that invariable 
enforcer of right or wrong upon the frontiers, and, hav¬ 
ing saddled his steed, was about to sally forth on a foray 
into the swamp; while a brother squatter, with rifle in 
hand, stood ready to accompany him. 

We endeavored to calm the old campaigner of the 
prairies, by suggesting that his horse might have strayed 
into the neighboring woods; but he had the frontier pro¬ 
pensity to charge everything to the Indians, and nothing 


38 


CRAYON MISCELLANY 


could dissuade him from carrying fire and sword into the 
swamp. 

After riding a few miles further, we lost the trail of 
the main body of rangers, and became perplexed by a 
variety of tracks made by the Indians and settlers. At 
length coming to a log house, inhabited by a white 
man, the very last on the frontier, we found that we had 
wandered from our true course. Taking us back for 
some distance, he again brought us to the right trail; 
putting ourselves upon which, we took our final de¬ 
parture, and launched into the broad wilderness. 

The trail kept on like a straggling footpath, over hill 
and dale, through brush and brake, and tangled thicket, 
and open prairie. In traversing the wilds, it is cus¬ 
tomary for a party, either of horse or foot, to follow each 
other in single file like the Indians ; so that the leaders 
break the way for those who follow, and lessen their 
labor and fatigue. In this way, also, the number of a 
party is concealed, the whole leaving but one narrow 
well-trampled track to mark their course. 

We had not long regained the trail, when, on emerging 
from a forest, w r e beheld our rawboned, hard-winking, 
hard-riding knight-errant of the frontier, descending the 
slope of a hill, followed by his companion in arms. As 
he drew near to us, the gauntness of his figure and rue¬ 
fulness of his aspect reminded me of the description of 
the hero of La Mancha, and he was equally bent on 
affairs of doughty enterprise, being about to penetrate 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


39 


the thickets of the perilous swamp, within which the 
enemy lay ensconced. 

While we were holding a parley with him on the slope 
of the hill, we descried an Osage on horseback issuing 
out of a skirt of wood about half a mile off, and leading a 
horse by a halter. The latter was immediately recog¬ 
nized by our hard-winking friend as the steed of which 
he was in quest. As the Osage drew near, I was struck 
with his appearance. He was about nineteen or twenty 
years of age, but well grown, with the fine Homan coun¬ 
tenance common to his tribe; and as he rode, with his 
blanket wrapped round his loins, his naked bust would 
have furnished a model for a statuary. He was mounted 
on a beautiful piebald horse, a mottled white and brown, 
of the wild breed of the prairies, decorated with a broad 
collar, from which hung in front a tuft of horse-hair dyed 
of a bright scarlet. 

The youth rode slowly up to us with a frank open air, 
and signified by means of our interpreter Beatte, that 
the horse he was leading had wandered to their camp, 
and he was now on his way to conduct him back to his 
owner. 

I had expected to witness an expression of gratitude 
on the part of our hard-favored cavalier, but to my sur¬ 
prise the old fellow broke out into a furious passion. 
He declared that the Indians had carried off his horse 
in the night, with the intention of bringing him home in 
the morning, and claiming a reward for finding him : a 


40 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


common practice, as he affirmed, among the Indians. 
He was, therefore, for tying the young Indian to a tree 
and giving him a sound lashing; and was quite surprised 
at the burst of indignation which this novel mode of 
requiting a service drew from us. Such, however, is 
too often the administration of law on the frontier, 
“ Lynch’s law,” as it is technically termed, in which the 
plaintiff is apt to be witness, jury, judge, and execu¬ 
tioner, and the defendant to be convicted and punished 
on mere presumption; and in this way, I am convinced, 
are occasioned many of those heart-burnings and resent¬ 
ments among the Indians, which lead to retaliation, and 
end in Indian wars. When I compared the open, noble 
countenance and frank demeanor of the young Osage 
with the sinister visage and high-handed conduct of the 
frontiersman, I felt little doubt on whose back a lash 
would be most meritoriously bestowed. 

Being thus obliged to content himself with the re¬ 
covery of his horse, without the pleasure of flogging the 
finder into the bargain, the old Lycurgus, or rather 
Draco, of the frontier, set off growling on his return 
homeward, followed by his brother-squatter. 

As for the youthful Osage, we were all prepossessed in 
his favor; the young Count especially, with the sym¬ 
pathies proper to his age and incident to his character, 
had taken quite a fancy to him. Nothing would suit but 
he must have the young Osage as a companion and 
squire in his expedition into the wilderness. The youth 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


41 


was easily tempted, and, with the prospect of a safe 
range over the buffalo prairies and the promise of a new 
blanket, he turned his bridle, left the swamp and the en¬ 
campment of his friends behind him, and set off to 
follow the Count in his wanderings in quest of the Osage 
hunters. 

Such is the glorious independence of man in a savage 
state. This youth, with his rifle, his blanket, and his 
horse, was ready at a moment’s warning to rove the 
world; he carried all his worldly effects with him, and 
in the absence of artificial wants possessed the great 
secret of personal freedom. We of society are slaves, not 
so much to others as to ourselves ; our superfluities are 
the chains that bind us, impeding every movement of 
our bodies, and thwarting every impulse of our souls. 
Such, at least, were my speculations at the time, though 
I am not sure but that they took their tone from the 
enthusiasm of the young Count, who seemed more en¬ 
chanted than ever with the wild chivalry of the prairies, 
and talked of putting on the Indian dress and adopting 
the Indian habits during the time he hoped to pass with 
the Osages. 


CHAPTER VI 

TRAIL OF THE OSAGE HUNTERS.—DEPARTURE OF THE COUNT AND HIS PARTY 
—A DESERTED WAR-CAMP.—A VAGRANT DOG.—THE ENCAMPMENT. 


R|53|N the course of the morning the trail we were 
pursuing was crossed by another, which struck 
off through the forest to the west in a direct 
course for the Arkansas River. Beatte, our half-breed, 
after considering it for a moment, pronounced it the trail 
of the Osage hunters; and that it must lead to the place 
where they had forded the river on their way to the 
hunting-grounds. 

Here then the young Count and his companion came 
to a halt and prepared to take leave of us. The most 
experienced frontiersmen in the troop remonstrated on 
the hazard of the undertaking. They were about to 
throw themselves loose in the wilderness, with no other 
guides, guards, or attendants than a young ignorant half- 
breed, and a still younger Indian. They were embar¬ 
rassed by a pack-horse and two led horses, with which 
they would have to make their way through matted 
forests, and across rivers and morasses. The Osages 
and Pawnees were at war, and they might fall in with 

42 






A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


43 


some warrior party of the latter, who are ferocious foes; 
besides, their small number, and their valuable horses 
would form a great temptation to some of the straggling 
bands of Osages loitering about the frontier, who might 
rob them of their horses in the night, and leave them 
destitute and on foot in the midst of the prairies. 

Nothing, however, could restrain the romantic ardor of 
the Count for a campaign of buffalo-hunting with the 
Osages, and he had a game spirit that seemed always 
stimulated by the idea of danger. His travelling com¬ 
panion, of discreeter age and calmer temperament, was 
convinced of the rashness of the enterprise ; but he could 
not control the impetuous zeal of his youthful friend, and 
he was too loyal to leave him to pursue his hazardous 
scheme alone. To our great regret, therefore, we saw 
them abandon the protection of our escort, and strike off 
on their hap-hazard expedition. The old hunters of our 
party shook their heads, and our half-breed, Beatte, pre¬ 
dicted all kinds of trouble to them ; my only hope was, 
that they would soon meet with perplexities enough to 
cool the impetuosity of the young Count, and induce him 
to rejoin us. With this idea we travelled slowly, and 
made a considerable halt at noon. After resuming our 
march, we came in sight of the Arkansas. It presented a 
broad and rapid stream, bordered by a beach of fine sand, 
overgrown with willows and cotton-wood trees. Beyond 
the river, the eye wandered over a beautiful champaign 
country, of flowery plains and sloping uplands, diversified 


44 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


by groves and clumps of trees, and long screens of wood¬ 
land; tlie whole wearing the aspect of complete, and 
even ornamental cultivation, instead of native wildness. 
Not far from the river, on an open eminence, we passed 
through the recently deserted camping-place of an Osage 
war-party. The frames of the tents or wigwams re¬ 
mained, consisting of poles bent into an arch, with each 
end stuck into the ground: these are intertwined with 
twigs and branches, and covered with bark and skins. 
Those experienced in Indian lore, can ascertain the tribe, 
and whether on a hunting or a warlike expedition, by the 
shape and disposition of the wigwams. Beatte pointed 
out to us, in the present skeleton camp, the wigwam in 
which the chiefs had held their consultations round the 
council-fire; and an open area, well trampled down, on 
which the grand war-dance had been performed. 

Pursuing our journey, as we were passing through a 
forest, we were met by a forlorn, half-famished dog, who 
came rambling along the trail, with inflamed eyes and 
bewildered look. Though nearly trampled upon by the 
foremost rangers, he took notice of no one, but rambled 
heedlessly among the horses. The cry of “mad dog” 
was immediately raised, and one of the rangers levelled 
his rifle, but was stayed by the ever-ready humanity of 
the Commissioner. “ He is blind! ” said he. “ It is the 
dog of some poor Indian, following his master by the 
scent. It would be a shame to kill so faithful an ani¬ 
mal.” The ranger shouldered his rifle, the dog blun- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES . 


45 


dered blindly through the cavalcade unhurt, and keeping 
his nose to the ground, continued his course along the 
trail, affording a rare instance of a dog surviving a bad 
name. 

About three o’clock, we came to a recent camping- 
place of the company of rangers: the brands of one of 
their fires were still smoking; so that, according to the 
opinion of Beatte, they could not have passed on above a 
day previously. As there was a fine stream of water 
close by, and plenty of pea-vines for the horses, we 
encamped here for the night. 

We had not been here long, when we heard a halloo 
from a distance, and beheld the young Count and his 
party advancing through the forest. We welcomed them 
to the camp with heartfelt satisfaction; for their depart¬ 
ure upon so hazardous an expedition had caused us great 
uneasiness. A short experiment had convinced them of 
the toil and difficulty of inexperienced travellers like 
themselves making their way through the wilderness 
with such a train of horses, and such slender attendance. 
Fortunately, they determined to rejoin us before night¬ 
fall ; one night’s camping out might have cost them their 
horses. The Count had prevailed upon his protege and 
esquire, the young Osage, to continue with him, and still 
calculated upon achieving great exploits with his assist¬ 
ance, on the buffalo prairies. 


CHAPTER YU 


NEWS OF THE RANGERS—THE COUNT AND HIS INDIAN SQUIRE.—HALT IN THU 
WOODS.—WOODLAND SCENE.—OSAGE VILLAGE.—OSAGE VISITORS AT OUR 
EVENING CAMP. 


jjN the morning early, (Oct. 12,) the two Creeks 
| who had been sent express by the commander 
| of Fort Gibson, to stop the company of rang¬ 
ers, arrived at our encampment on their return. They 
had left the company encamped about fifty miles distant, 
in a fine place on the Arkansas, abounding in game, 
where they intended to await our arrival. This news 
spread animation throughout our party, and we set out 
on our march, at sunrise, with renewed spirit. 

In mounting our steeds, the young Osage attempted to 
throw a blanket upon his wild horse. The fine, sensitive 
animal took fright, reared and recoiled. The attitudes of 
the wild horse and the almost naked savage would have 
formed studies for a painter or a statuary. 

I often pleased myself, in the course of our march, 
with noticing the appearance of the young Count and his 
newly enlisted follower, as they rode before me. Never 
was preux chevalier better suited with an esquire. The 

46 




A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


47 


Count was well mounted, and, as I have before observed, 
was a bold and graceful rider. He was fond, too, of 
caracoling his horse, and dashing about in the buoyancy 
of youthful spirits. His dress was a gay Indian liunt- 
ing-frock, of dressed deer-skin, setting well to the shape, 
dyed of a beautiful purple, and fancifully embroidered 
with silks of various colors; as if it had been the work of 
some Indian beauty, to decorate a favorite chief. With 
this he wore leathern pantaloons and moccasins, a forag¬ 
ing-cap, apd a double-barrelled gun slung by a bandoleer 
athwart his back: so that he was quite a picturesque 
figure as he managed gracefully his spirited steed. 

The young Osage would ride close behind him on his 
wild and beautifully mottled horse, which was decorated 
with crimson tufts of hair. He rode, with his finely 
shaped head and bust naked; his blanket being girt 
round his waist. He carried his rifle in one hand, and 
managed his horse with the other, and seemed ready 
to dash off at a moment’s warning, with his youthful 
leader, on any madcap foray or scamper. The Count, 
with the sanguine anticipations of youth, promised him¬ 
self many hardy adventures and exploits in company 
with his youthful “brave,” when we should get among 
the buffaloes, in the Pawnee hunting-grounds. 

After riding some distance, we crossed a narrow, deep 
stream, upon a solid bridge, the remains of an old beaver 
dam; the industrious community which had constructed 
*t had all been destroyed. Above us, a streaming flight 


48 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


of wild geese, High in air, and making a vociferous noise, 
gave note of the waning year. 

About half-past ten o’clock we made a halt in a forest, 
where there was abundance of the pea-vine. Here we 
turned the horses loose to graze. A fire was made, wa¬ 
ter procured from an adjacent spring, and in a short time 
our little Frenchman, Tonish, had a pot of coffee pre¬ 
pared for our refreshment. While partaking of it, we 
were joined by an old Osage, one of a small hunting 
party who had recently passed this way. He was in 
search of his horse, which had wandered away, or been 
stolen. Our half-breed, Beatte, made a wry face on 
hearing of Osage hunters in this direction. “ Until we 
pass those hunters,” said he, “we shall see no buffa¬ 
loes. They frighten away everything like a prairie on 
fire.” 

The morning repast being over, the party amused 
themselves in various ways. Some shot with their rifles 
at a mark, others lay asleep half buried in the deep bed 
of foliage, with their heads resting on their saddles; 
others gossiped round the fire at the foot of a tree, which 
sent up wreaths of blue smoke among the branches. 
The horses banqueted luxuriously on the pea-vines, and 
some lay down and rolled amongst them. 

We were overshadowed by lofty trees, with straight, 
smooth trunks, like stately columns; and as the glancing 
rays of the sun shone through the transparent leaves, 
tinted with the many-colored hues of autumn, I was re- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


49 


minded of tlie effect of sunshine among the stained win¬ 
dows and clustering columns of a Gothic cathedral. In¬ 
deed there is a grandeur and solemnity in our spacious 
forests of the West, that awaken in me the same feeling 
I have experienced in those vast and \enerable piles, and 
the sound of the wind sweeping through them supplies 
occasionally the deep breathings of the organ. 

About noon the bugle sounded to horse, and we were 
again on the march, hoping to arrive at the encampment 
of the rangers before night; as the old Osage had as¬ 
sured us it was not above ten or twelve miles distant. 
In our course through a forest, we passed by a lonely 
pool, covered with the most magnificent water-lilies I 
had ever beheld; among which swam several wood- 
ducks, one of the most beautiful of water-fowl, remarka¬ 
ble for the gracefulness and brilliancy of its plumage. 

After proceeding some distance farther, we came down 
upon the banks of the Arkansas, at a place where tracks 
of numerous horses, all entering the water, showed 
where a party of Osage hunters had recently crossed the 
river on their way to the buffalo range. After letting 
our horses drink in the river, we continued along its 
bank for a space, and then across prairies, where we saw 
a distant smoke, which we hoped might proceed from the 
encampment of the rangers. Following what we sup¬ 
posed to be their trail, we came to a meadow in which 
were a number of horses grazing: they were not, how¬ 
ever, the horses of the troop. A little farther on, we 
4 


50 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


reached a straggling Osage village, on the banks of the 
Arkansas. Our arrival created quite a sensation. A 
number of old men came forward and shook hands with 
us all severally ; while the women and children huddled 
together in groups, staring at us wildly, chattering and 
laughing among themselves. We found that all the 
young men of the village had departed on a hunting ex¬ 
pedition, leaving the women and children and old men 
behind. Here the Commissioner made a speech from on 
horseback; informing his hearers of the purport of his 
mission, to promote a general peace among the tribes of 
the West, and urging them to lay aside all warlike and 
bloodthirsty notions, and not to make any wanton attacks 
upon the Pawnees. This speech being interpreted by 
Beatte, seemed to have a most pacifying effect upon the 
multitude, who promised faithfully that, as far as in 
them lay, the peace should not be disturbed ; and indeed 
their age and sex gave some reason to trust that they 
would keep their word. 

Still hoping to reach the camp of the rangers before 
nightfall, we pushed on until twilight, when we were 
obliged to halt on the borders of a ravine. The rangers 
bivouacked under trees, at the bottom of the dell, while 
we pitched our tent on a rocky knoll near a running 
stream. The night came on dark and overcast, with fly¬ 
ing clouds, and much appearance of rain. The fires of 
the rangers burnt brightly in the dell, and threw strong 
masses of light upon the robber-looking groups that 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


51 


were cooking, eating, and drinking around them. To 
add to the wildness of the scene, several Osage Indians, 
visitors from the village we had passed, were mingled 
among the men. Three of them came and seated them¬ 
selves by our fire. They watched everything that was 
going on round them in silence, and looked like figures 
of monumental bronze. We gave them food, and, what 
they most relished, coffee; for the Indians partake in 
the universal fondness for this beverage, which pervades 
the West. When they had made their supper, they 
stretched themselves side by side before the fire, and 
began a low nasal chant, drumming with their hands 
upon their breasts by way of accompaniment. Their 
chant seemed to consist of regular staves, every one ter¬ 
minating, not in a melodious cadence, but in the abrupt 
interjection huh! uttered almost like a hiccup. This 
chant, we were told by our interpreter, Beatte, related 
to ourselves, our appearance, our treatment of them, and 
all that they knew of our plans. In one part they spoke 
of the young Count, whose animated character and eager¬ 
ness for Indian enterprise had struck their fancy, and 
they indulged in some waggery about him and the young 
Indian beauties, that produced great merriment among 
our half-breeds. 

This mode of improvising is common throughout the 
savage tribes; and in this way, with a few simple inflec¬ 
tions of the voice, they chant all their exploits in war 
and hunting, and occasionally indulge in a vein of comic 


52 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


humor and dry satire, to which the Indians appear to me 
much more prone than is generally imagined. 

In fact, the Indians that I have had an opportunity of 
seeing in real life are quite different from those described 
in poetry. They are by no means the stoics that they are 
represented; taciturn, unbending, without a tear or a 
smile. Taciturn they are, it is true, when in company 
with white men, whose good-will they distrust, and 
whose language they do not understand; but the white 
man is equally taciturn under like circumstances. When 
the Indians are among themselves, however, there can¬ 
not be greater gossips. Half their time is taken up in 
talking over their adventures in war and hunting, and in 
telling whimsical stories. They are great mimics and 
buffoons, also, and entertain themselves excessively at 
the expense of the whites with whom they have asso¬ 
ciated, and who have supposed them impressed with 
profound respect for their grandeur and dignity. They 
are curious observers, noting everything in silence, but 
with a keen and watchful eye ; occasionally exchanging a 
glance or a grunt with each other, when anything partic¬ 
ularly strikes them; but reserving all comments until 
they are alone. Then it is that they give full scope to 
criticism, satire, mimicry, and mirth. 

In the course of my journey along the frontier I have 
had repeated opportunities of noticing their excitability 
and boisterous merriment at their games; and have occa¬ 
sionally noticed a group of Osages sitting round a fire 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


53 


until a late hour of the night, engaged in the most ani¬ 
mated and lively conversation ; and at times making the 
woods resound with peals of laughter. As to tears, they 
have them in abundance, both real and affected; at times 
they make a merit of them. No one weeps more bitterly 
or profusely at the death of a relative or friend; and 
they have stated times when they repair to howl and 
lament at their graves. I have heard doleful wailings at 
daybreak, in the neighboring Indian villages, made by 
some of the inhabitants, who go out at that hour into the 
fields to mourn and weep for the dead: at such times, I 
am told, the tears will stream down their cheeks in 
torrents. 

As far as I can judge, the Indian of poetical fiction is, 
like the shepherd of pastoral romance, a mere personifi¬ 
cation of imaginary attributes. 

The nasal chant of our Osage guests gradually died 
away; they covered their heads with their blankets and 
fell fast asleep, and in a little while all was silent, ex¬ 
cepting the pattering of scattered rain-drops upon our 
tent. 

In the morning our Indian visitors breakfasted with 
us, but the young Osage who was to act as esquire to 
the Count in his knight-errantry on the prairies, was 
nowhere to be found. His wild horse, too, was missing, 
and, after many conjectures, we came to the conclusion 
that he had taken “ Indian leave ” of us in the night. 
We afterwards ascertained that he had been persuaded 


54 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


so to do by tbe Osages we had recently met with ; who 
had represented to him the perils that would attend him 
in an expedition to the Pawnee hunting-grounds, where 
he might fall into the hands of the implacable enemies of 
his tribe : and, what was scarcely less to be apprehended, 
the annoyances to which he would be subjected from the 
capricious and overbearing conduct of the white men; 
who, as I have witnessed in my own short experience, 
are prone to treat the poor Indians as little better than 
brute animals. Indeed, he had had a specimen of it 
himself in the narrow escape he made from the infliction 
of “ Lynch’s law,” by the hard-winking worthy of the 
frontier, for the flagitious crime of finding a stray horse. 

The disappearance of the youth was generally regret¬ 
ted by our party, for we had all taken a great fancy to 
him from his handsome, frank, and manly appearance, 
and the easy grace of his deportment. He was indeed a 
native-born gentleman. By none, however, was he so 
much lamented as by the young Count, who thus sud¬ 
denly found himself deprived of his esquire. I regretted 
the departure of the Osage for his own sake, for we 
should have cherished him throughout the expedition, 
and I am convinced, from the munificent spirit of his 
patron, he would have returned to his tribe laden with 
wealth of beads and trinkets and Indian blankets. 


CHAPTER VUL 


THE HONEY CAMP. 

'HE weather, which had been rainy in the night, 
having held up, we resumed our march at seven 
o’clock in the morning, in confident hope of 
soon arriving at the encampment of the rangers. We 
had not ridden above three or four miles when we 
came to a large tree which had recently been felled 
by an axe, for the wild honey contained in the hollow of 
its trunk, several broken flakes of which still remained. 
We now felt sure that the camp could not be far distant. 
About a couple of miles further some of the rangers 
set up a shout, and pointed to a number of horses graz¬ 
ing in a woody bottom. A few paces brought us to the 
brow of an elevated ridge, whence we looked down upon 
the encampment. It was a wild bandit, or Robin Hood, 
scene. In a beautiful open forest, traversed by a run¬ 
ning stream, were booths of bark and branches, and 
tents of blankets,—temporary shelters from the recent 
rain, for the rangers commonly bivouac in the open air. 
There were groups of rangers in every kind of uncouth 

garb. Some were cooking at large fires made at the feet 

55 









56 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


of trees; some were stretching and dressing deer-skins; 
some were shooting at a mark, and some lying about on 
the grass. Yenison jerked, and hung on frames, was 
drying over the embers in one place; in another lay 
carcasses recently brought in by the hunters. Stacks 
of rifles were leaning against the trunks of the trees, and 
saddles, bridles, and powder-horns hanging above them, 
while the horses were grazing here and there among the 
thickets. 

Our arrival was greeted with acclamation. The rang¬ 
ers crowded about their comrades to inquire the news 
from the fort; for our own part, we were received in 
frank simple hunter’s style by Captain Bean, the com¬ 
mander of the company; a man about forty years of age, 
vigorous and active. His life had been chiefly passed 
on the frontier, occasionally in Indian warfare, so that 
he was a thorough woodsman, and a first-rate hunter. 
He was equipped in character; in leathern hunting-shirt 
and leggins, and a leathern foraging-cap. 

While we were conversing with the Captain, a veteran 
huntsman approached, whose whole appearance struck 
me. He was of the middle size, but tough and weather- 
proved; a head partly bald and garnished with loose 
iron-gray locks, and a fine black eye, beaming with 
youthful spirit. His dress was similar to that of the 
Captain: a rifle-shirt and leggins of dressed deer-skin, 
that had evidently seen service; a powder - horn was 
slung by his side, a hunting-knife stuck in his belt, and 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


57 


in his hand was an ancient and trusty rifle, doubtless 
as dear to him as a bosom friend. He asked permission 
to go hunting, which was readily granted. “ That’s old 
Ryan,” said the Captain, when he had gone; “there’s 
not a better hunter in the camp; he’s sure to bring in 
game.” 

In a little while our pack-horses were unloaded and 
turned loose to revel among the pea-vines. Our tent was 
pitched; our fire made ; the half of a deer had been sent 
to us from the Captain’s lodge ; Beatte brought in a 
couple of wild turkeys; the spits were laden, and the 
camp-kettle crammed with meat; and, to crown our lux¬ 
uries, a basin filled with great flakes of delicious honey, 
the spoils of a plundered bee-tree, was given us by one 
of the rangers. 

Our little Frenchman, Tonish, was in an ecstasy, and 
tucking up his sleeves to the elbows, set to work to make 
a display of his culinary skill, on which he prided him¬ 
self almost as much as upon his hunting, his riding, and 
his warlike prowess. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A BEE-HUNT. 

HE beautiful forest in which we were encamped 
abounded in bee-trees; that is to say, trees in 
the decayed trunks of which wild bees had 
established their hives. It is surprising in what count¬ 
less swarms the bees have overspread the Far West 
within but a moderate number of years. The Indians 
consider them the harbinger of the white man, as the 
buffalo is of the red man ; and say that, in proportion as 
the bee advances, the Indian and buffalo retire. We are 
always accustomed to associate the hum of the bee-hive 
with the farm-house and flower-garden, and to consider 
those industrious little animals as connected with the 
busy haunts of man, and I am told that the wild bee is 
seldom to be met with at any great distance from the 
frontier. They have been the heralds of civilization, 
steadfastly preceding it as it advanced from the Atlantic 
borders, and some of the ancient settlers of the West 
pretend to give the very year when the honey-bee first 
crossed the Mississippi. The Indians with surprise 
found the mouldering trees of their forests suddenly 

58 









A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


59 


teeming with ambrosial sweets, and nothing, I am told, 
can exceed the greedy relish with which they banquet 
for the first time upon this unbought luxury of the 
wilderness. 

At present the honey-bee swarms in myriads, in the 
noble groves and forests which skirt and intersect the 
prairies, and extend along the alluvial bottoms of the 
rivers. It seems to me as if these beautiful regions 
answer literally to the description of the land of promise, 
“ a land flowing with milk and honey ; ” for the rich pas¬ 
turage of the prairies is calculated to sustain herds of 
cattle as countless as the sands upon the sea-shore, while 
the flowers with which they are enamelled render them a 
very paradise for the nectar-seeking bee. 

We had not been long in the camp when a party set 
out in quest of a bee-tree ; and, being curious to witness 
the sport, I gladly accepted an invitation to accompany 
them. The party was headed by a veteran bee-hunter, 
a tall, lank fellow in homespun garb that hung loosely 
about his limbs, and a straw hat shaped not unlike a bee¬ 
hive ; a comrade, equally uncouth in garb, and without a 
hat, straddled along at his heels, with a long rifle on his 
shoulder. To these succeeded half a dozen others, some 
with axes and some with rifles, for no one stirs far from 
the camp without his firearms, so as to be ready either 
for wild deer or wild Indian. 

After proceeding some distance, we came to an open 
glade on the skirts of the forest. Here our leader halted, 


60 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


and then advanced quietly to a low bush, on the top of 
which I perceived a piece of honey-comb. This I found 
was the bait or lure for the wild bees. Several were 
humming about it, and diving into its cells. When they 
had laden themselves with honey, they w T ould rise into 
the air, and dart off in a straight line, almost with the 
velocity of a bullet. The hunters watched attentively 
the course they took, and then set off in the same direc¬ 
tion, stumbling along over twisted roots and fallen trees, 
with their eyes turned up to the sky. In this way they 
traced the honey-laden bees to their hive, in the hollow 
trunk of a blasted oak, where, after buzzing about for a 
moment, they entered a hole about sixty feet from the 
ground. 

Two of the bee-hunters now plied their axes vigorously 
at the foot of the tree, to level it with the ground. The 
mere spectators and amateurs, in the meantime, drew off 
to a cautious distance, to be out of the way of the falling 
of the tree and the vengeance of its inmates. The jarring 
blows of the axe seemed to have no effect in alarming or 
disturbing this most industrious community. They con¬ 
tinued to ply at their usual occupations, some arriving 
full freighted into port, others sallying forth on new ex¬ 
peditions, like so many merchantmen in a money-making 
metropolis, little suspicious of impending bankruptcy and 
downfall. Even a loud crack which announced the dis- 
rupture of the trunk, failed to divert their attention from 
the intense pursuit of gain; at length down came the tree 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


61 


with a tremendous crash, bursting open from end to end, 
and displaying all the hoarded treasures of the common¬ 
wealth. 

One of the hunters immediately ran up with a wisp 
of lighted hay as a defense against the bees. The latter, 
however, made no attack and sought no revenge; they 
seemed stupefied by the catastrophe and unsuspicious of 
its cause, and remained crawling and buzzing about the 
ruins without offering us any molestation. Every one of 
the party now fell to, with spoon and hunting-knife, to 
scoop out the flakes of honey-comb with which the 
hollow trunk was stored. Some of them were of old date 
and a deep brown color, others were beautifully white, 
and the honey in their cells was almost limpid. Such of 
the combs as were entire were placed in camp-kettles to 
be conveyed to the encampment; those which had been 
shivered in the fall were devoured upon the spot. Every 
stark bee-hunter was to be seen with a rich morsel in his 
hand, dripping about his fingers, and disappearing as 
rapidly as a cream tart before the holiday appetite of a 
schoolboy. 

Nor was it the bee-hunters alone that profited by the 
downfall of this industrious community: as if the bees 
would carry through the similitude of their habits with 
those of laborious and gainful man, I beheld numbers 
from rival hives, arriving on eager wing, to enrich them¬ 
selves with the ruins of their neighbors. These busied 
themselves as eagerly and cheerfully as so many wreck- 


62 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


ers on an Indiaman that has been driven on shore; 
plunging into the cells of the broken honey-combs, ban¬ 
queting greedily on the spoil, and then winging their 
way full freighted to their homes. As to the poor 
proprietors of the ruin, they seemed to have no heart 
to do anything, not even to taste the nectar that flowed 
around them; but crawled backwards and forwards, 
in vacant desolation, as I have seen a poor fellow with 
his hands in his pockets, whistling vacantly and de- 
spondingly about the ruins of his house that had been 
burnt. 

It is difficult to describe the bewilderment and confu¬ 
sion of the bees of the bankrupt hive who had been ab¬ 
sent at the time of the catastrophe, and who arrived from 
time to time, with full cargoes from abroad. At first 
they wheeled about in the air, in the place where the 
fallen tree had once reared its head, astonished at finding 
it all a vacuum. At length, as if comprehending their 
disaster, they settled down in clusters on a dry branch of 
a neighboring tree, whence they seemed to contemplate 
the prostrate ruin, and to buzz forth doleful lamentations 
over the downfall of their republic. It was a scene on 
which the “melancholy Jacques” might have moralized 
by the hour. 

We now abandoned the place, leaving much honey in 
the hollow of the tree. “It will all be cleared off by 
varmint,” said one of the rangers. “What vermin?” 
asked I. “Oh, bears, and skunks, and raccoons, and 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


63 


’possums. The bears is the knowingest varmint for find¬ 
ing out a bee-tree in the world. They’ll gnaw for days 
together at the trunk till they make a hole big enough to 
get in their paws, and then they’ll haul out honey, bees 


CHAPTER X. 


AMUSEMENTS IN THE CAMP.—CONSULTATIONS—HUNTERS’ FARE AND FEA9TTNO. 

—EVENING SCENES.—CAMP MELODY.—THE FATE OF AN AMATEUR OWL. 

returning to the camp, we found it a scene ol 
le greatest hilarity. Some of the rangers 
ere shooting at a mark, others were leaping, 
wrestling, and playing at prison-bars. They were mostly 
young men, on their first expedition, in high health and 
vigor, and buoyant with anticipations; and I can con¬ 
ceive nothing more likely to set the youthful blood into 
a flow than a wild wood-life of the kind, and the range 
of a magnificent wilderness, abounding with game, and 
fruitful of adventure. We send our youth abroad to 
grow luxurious and effeminate in Europe; it appears to 
me that a previous tour on the prairies would be more 
likely to produce that manliness, simplicity, and self- 
dependence most in unison with our political institu¬ 
tions. 

While the young men were engaged in these boisterous 
amusements, a graver set, composed of the Captain, the 
Doctor, and other sages and leaders of the camp, were 
seated or stretched out on the grass, round a frontier 

64 







A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


65 


map, holding a consultation about our position, and the 
course we were to pursue. 

Our plan was to cross the Arkansas just above where 
the Red Fork falls into it, then to keep westerly, until we 
should pass through a grand belt of open forest, called 
the Cross Timber, which ranges nearly north and south 
from the Arkansas to Red River ; after which we were to 
keep a southerly course towards the latter river. 

Our half-breed, Beatte, being an experienced Osage 
hunter, was called into the consultation. “Have you 
ever hunted in this direction? ” said the Captain. “Yes,” 
was the laconic reply. 

“ Perhaps, then, you can tell us in which direction lies 
the Red Fork?” 

“If you keep along yonder, by the edge of the prairie, 
you will come to a bald hill, with a pile of stones 
upon it.” 

“ I have noticed that hill as I was hunting,” said the 
Captain. 

“ Well! those stones were set up by the Osages as a 
landmark: from that spot you may have a sight of the 
Red Fork.” 

“ In that case,” cried the Captain, “ we shall reach the 
Red Fork to-morrow; then cross the Arkansas above it, 
into the Pawnee country, and then in two days we shall 
crack buffalo bones! ” 

The idea of arriving at the adventurous hunting- 
grounds of the Pawnees, and of coming upon the traces 
5 


66 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


of the buffaloes, made every eye sparkle with animation 
Our further conversation was interrupted by the sharp 
report of a rifle at no great distance from the camp. 

“That’s old Ryan’s rifle,” exclaimed the Captain; 
“ there’s a buck down, I’ll warrant! ” nor was he mis¬ 
taken ; for, before long, the veteran made his appearance, 
calling upon one of the younger rangers to return with 
him, and aid in bringing home the carcass. 

The surrounding country, in fact, abounded with game, 
so that the camp was overstocked with provisions, and, 
as no less than twenty bee-trees had been cut down in 
the vicinity, every one revelled in luxury. With the 
wasteful prodigality of hunters, there was a continual 
feasting, and scarce any one put by provision for the 
morrow. The cooking was conducted in hunters’ style: 
the meat was stuck upon tapering spits of dogwood, 
which were thrust perpendicularly into the ground, so as 
to sustain the joint before the fire, where it was roasted 
or broiled with all its juices retained in it in a manner 
that would have tickled the palate of the most expe¬ 
rienced gourmand. As much could not be said in favor 
of the bread. It was little more than a paste made of 
flour and water, and fried like fritters, in lard; though 
some adopted a ruder style, twisting it round the ends 
of sticks, and thus roasting it before the fire. In either 
way, I have found it extremely palatable on the prairies. 
No one knows the true relish of food until he has a hunt¬ 
er’s appetite. 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


67 


Before sunset, we were summoned by little Tonish to a 
sumptuous repast. Blankets had been spread on the 
ground near to the fire, upon which we took our seats. 
A large dish, or bowl, made from the root of a maple- 
tree, and which we had purchased at the Indian village, 
was placed on the ground before us, and into it were 
emptied the contents of one of the camp-kettles, consist¬ 
ing of a wild turkey hashed, together with slices of bacon 
and lumps of dough. Beside it was placed another bowl 
of similar ware, containing an ample supply of fritters. 
After we had discussed the hash, two wooden spits, on 
which the ribs of a fat buck were broiling before the fire, 
were removed and planted in the ground before us, with 
a triumphant air, by little Tonish. Having no dishes, we 
had to proceed in hunters’ style, cutting off strips and 
slices with our hunting-knives, and dipping them in salt 
and pepper. To do justice to Tonish’s cookery, however, 
and to the keen sauce of the prairies, never have I tasted 
venison so delicious. With all this, our beverage was 
coffee, boiled in a camp-kettle, sweetened with brown 
sugar, and drunk out of tin cups: and such was the style 
of our banqueting throughout this expedition, whenever 
provisions were plenty, and as long as flour and coffee 
and sugar held out. 

As the twilight thickened into night, the sentinels were 
marched forth to their stations around the camp: an in¬ 
dispensable precaution in a country infested by Indians. 
The encampment now presented a picturesque appear- 


68 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


ance. Camp-fires were blazing and smouldering here 
and there among the trees, with groups of rangers round 
them; some seated or lying on the ground, others stand¬ 
ing in the ruddy glare of the flames, or in shadowy relief. 
At some of the fires there was much boisterous mirth, 
where peals of laughter were mingled with loud ribald 
jokes and uncouth exclamations; for the troop was evi¬ 
dently a raw, undisciplined band, levied among the wild 
youngsters of the frontier, who had enlisted, some for the 
sake of roving adventure, and some for the purpose of 
getting a knowledge of the country. Many of them were 
the neighbors of their officers, and accustomed to regard 
them with the familiarity of equals and companions. 
None of them had any idea of the restraint and decorum 
of a camp, or ambition to acquire a name for exactness 
in a profession in which they had no intention of con¬ 
tinuing. 

While this boisterous merriment prevailed at some of 
the fires, there suddenly rose a strain of nasal melody 
from another, at which a choir of “ vocalists ” were 
uniting their voices in a most lugubrious psalm-tune. 
This was led by one of the lieutenants; a tall, spare man, 
who we were informed had officiated as schoolmaster, 
singing-master, and occasionally as Methodist preacher, 
in one of the villages of the fontier. The chant rose 
solemnly and sadly in the night air, and reminded me of 
the description of similar canticles in the camps of the 
Covenanters; and, indeed, the strange medley of figures 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


69 


and faces and uncouth garbs congregated together in our 
troop would not have disgraced the banners of Praise- 
God Barebone. 

In one of the intervals of this nasal psalmody an ama¬ 
teur owl, as if in competition, began his dreary hooting. 
Immediately there was a cry throughout the camp of 
“ Charley’s owl! Charley’s owl! ” It seems this “ obscure 
bird” had visited the camp every night, and had been 
fired at by one of the sentinels, a half-witted lad named 
Charley; who, on being called up for firing when on duty, 
excused himself by saying, that he understood that owls 
made uncommonly good soup. 

One of the young rangers mimicked the cry of this bird 
of wisdom, who, with a simplicity little consonant with 
his character, came hovering within sight, and alighted 
on the naked branch of a tree lit up by the blaze of our 
fire. The young Count immediately seized his fowling- 
piece, took fatal aim, and in a twinkling the poor bird of 
ill omen came fluttering to the ground. Charley was now 
called upon to make and eat his dish of owl-soup, but 
declined, as he had not shot the bird. 

In the course of the evening I paid a visit to the Cap¬ 
tain’s fire. It was composed of huge trunks of trees, and 
of sufficient magnitude to roast a buffalo whole. Here 
were a number of the prime hunters and leaders of the 
camp, some sitting, some standing, and others lying on 
skins or blankets before the fire, telling old frontier 
stories about hunting and Indian warfare. 


70 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


As the night advanced, we perceived above the trees, 
to the west, a ruddy glow flushing up the sky. 

“ That must be a prairie set on fire by the Osage hunt¬ 
ers,” said the Captain. 

“It is at the Eed Fork,” said Beatte, regarding the 
sky. “ It seems but three miles distant, yet it perhaps 
is twenty.” 

About half-past eight o’clock, a beautiful pale light 
gradually sprang up in the east, a precursor of the rising 
moon. Drawing oft* from the Captain’s lodge, I now pre¬ 
pared for the night’s repose. I had determined to aban¬ 
don the shelter of the tent, and henceforth to bivouac 
like the rangers. A bear-skin spread at the foot of a 
tree was my bed, with a pair of saddle-bags for a pillow. 
Wrapping myself in blankets, I stretched myself on this 
hunter’s couch, and soon fell into a sound and sweet 
sleep, from which I did not awake until the bugle 
sounded at daybreak. 


CHAPTER XI. 


BREAKING UP OF THE ENCAMPMENT.—PICTURESQUE MARCH.—GAME.—CAMP 
SCENES.—TRIUMPH OF A YOUNG HUNTER.—ILL SUCCESS OF OLD HUNTERS. 
—FOUL MURDER OF A POLECAT. 

October 14 


rargers were roused from their night’s repose, and soon 
a bustling scene took place. While some cut wood, made 
fires, and prepared the morning’s meal, others struck 
their foul-weather shelters of blankets, and made every 
preparation for departure; while others dashed about, 
through brush and brake, catching the horses and lead¬ 
ing or driving them into camp. 

During all this bustle the forest rang with whoops, 
and shouts, and peals of laughter; when all had break¬ 
fasted, packed up their effects and camp-equipage, and 
loaded the pack-horses, the bugle sounded to saddle and 
mount. By eight o’clock the whole troop set off in a 
long straggling line, with whoop and halloo, intermingled 
with many an oath at the loitering pack-horses, and in a 
little while the forest, which for several days had been 

71 



T the signal-note of the bugle, the sentinels 
and patrols marched in from their stations 
around the camp and were dismissed. The 



72 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


the scene of such unwonted bustle and uproar, relapsed 
into its primeval solitude and silence. 

It was a bright sunny morning, with a pure trans¬ 
parent atmosphere that seemed to bathe the very heart 
with gladness. Our march continued parallel to the Ar¬ 
kansas, through a rich and varied country;—sometimes 
we had to break our way through alluvial bottoms mat¬ 
ted with redundant vegetation, where the gigantic trees 
were entangled with grape-vines, hanging like cordage 
from their branches; sometimes we coasted along slug¬ 
gish brooks, whose feebly trickling current just served 
to link together a succession of glassy pools, imbedded 
like mirrors in the quiet bosom of the forest, reflecting 
its autumnal foliage and patches of the clear blue ^ky. 
Sometimes we scrambled up broken and rocky hills, from 
the summits of which we had wide views stretching on 
one side over distant prairies diversified by groves and 
forests, and on the other ranging along a line of blue and 
shadowy hills beyond the waters of the Arkansas. 

The appearance of our troop was suited to the coun¬ 
try ; stretching along in a line of upwards of half a mile 
in length, winding among brakes and bushes, and up and 
down the defiles of the hills,—the men in every kind of 
uncouth garb, with long rifles on their shoulders, and 
mounted on horses of every color. The pack-horses, too, 
would incessantly wander from the line of march, to crop 
the surrounding herbage, and were banged and beaten 
back by Tonish and his half-breed compeers, with vol- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


73 


leys of mongrel oatlis. Every now and then the notes 
of the bugle, from the head of the column, would echo 
through the woodlands and along the hollow glens, sum¬ 
moning up stragglers, and announcing the line of march. 
The whole scene reminded me of the description given 
of bands of buccaneers penetrating the wilds of South 
America, on their plundering expeditions against the 
Spanish settlements. 

At one time we passed through a luxuriant bottom of 
meadow bordered by thickets, where the tall grass was 
pressed down into numerous “deer-beds,” where those 
animals had couched the preceding night. Some oak- 
trees also bore signs of having been clambered by bears, 
in quest of acorns, the marks of their claws being visible 
in the bark. 

As we opened a glade of this sheltered meadow, we 
beheld several deer bounding away in wild affright, until, 
having gained some distance, they would stop and gaze 
back, with the curiosity common to this animal, at the 
strange intruders into their solitudes. There was im¬ 
mediately a sharp report of rifles in every direction, from 
the young huntsmen of the troop, but they were too 
eager to aim surely, and the deer, unharmed, bounded 
away into the depths of the forest. 

In the course of our march we struck the Arkansas, 
but found ourselves still below the Red Fork, and, as 
the river made deep bends, we again left its banks and 
continued through the woods until nearly eight o’clock, 


74 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


when we encamped in a beautiful basin bordered by a 
fine stream, and shaded by clumps of lofty oaks. 

The horses were now hobbled, that is to say, their 
fore-legs were fettered with cords or leathern straps, so 
as to impede their movements, and prevent their wander¬ 
ing from the camp. They were then turned loose to 
graze. A number of rangers, prime hunters, started off 
in different directions in search of game. There was no 
whooping or laughing about the camp as in the morning; 
all were either busy about the fires preparing the even¬ 
ing’s repast, or reposing upon the grass. Shots were 
soon heard in various directions. After a time a hunts¬ 
man rode into the camp, with the carcass of a fine buck 
hanging across his horse. Shortly afterwards came in a 
couple of stripling hunters on foot, one of whom bore on 
his shoulders the body of a doe. He was evidently 
proud of his spoil, being probably one of his first 
achievements, though he and his companion were much 
bantered by their comrades, as young beginners who 
hunted in partnership. 

Just as the night set in, there was a great shouting at 
one end of the camp, and immediately afterwards a body 
of young rangers came parading round the various fires, 
bearing one of their comrades in triumph on their 
shoulders. He had shot an elk for the first time in his 
life, and it was the first animal of the kind that had been 
killed on this expedition. The young huntsman, whose 
name was M’Lellan, was the hero of the camp for the 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


75 


night, and was the “ father of the feast ” into the bargain; 
for portions of his elk were seen roasting at every fire. 

The other hunters returned without success. The 
Captain had observed the tracks of a buffalo which must 
have passed within a few days, and had tracked a bear 
for some distance until the footprints had disappeared. 
He had seen an elk too, on the banks of the Arkansas, 
which walked out on a sand-bar of the river, but before 
he could steal round through the bushes to get a shot, it 
had reentered the woods. 

Our own hunter, Beatte, returned silent and sulky, 
from an unsuccessful hunt. As yet he had brought us in 
nothing, and we had depended for our supplies of venison 
upon the Captain’s mess. Beatte was evidently morti¬ 
fied, for he looked down with contempt upon the rangers, 
as raw and inexperienced woodsmen, but little skilled in 
hunting;—they, on the other hand, regarded Beatte with 
no very complacent eye, as one of an evil breed, and 
always spoke of him as “ the Indian.” 

Our little Frenchman Tonish, also, by his incessant 
boasting and chattering, and gasconading, in his balder- 
dashed dialect, had drawn upon himself the ridicule of 
many of the wags of the troop, who amused themselves 
at his expense in a kind of raillery by no means remark¬ 
able for its delicacy; but the little varlet was so com¬ 
pletely fortified by vanity and self-conce ; t, that he was 
invulnerable to every joke. I must confess, however, 
that I felt a little mortified at the sorry figure our re- 


76 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


tainers were making among these moss-troopers of the 
frontier. Even our very equipments came in for a share 
of unpopularity, and I heard many sneers at the double- 
barrelled guns with which we were provided against 
smaller game; the lads of the West holding “shot-guns,” 
as they called them, in great contempt, thinking grouse, 
partridges, and even wild turkeys as beneath their 
serious attention, and the rifle the only fire-arm worthy 
of a hunter. 

I was awakened before daybreak the next morning by 
the mournful howling of a wolf, who was skulking about 
the purlieus of the camp, attracted by the scent of veni¬ 
son. Scarcely had the first gray streak of ' dawn ap¬ 
peared, when a youngster at one of the distant lodges, 
shaking off his sleep, crowed in imitation of a cock, with 
a loud clear note and prolonged cadence, that would 
have done credit to the most veteran chanticleer. He 
was immediately answered from another quarter, as if 
from a rival rooster. The chant was echoed from lodge 
to lodge, and followed by the cackling of hens, quack¬ 
ing of ducks, gabbling of turkeys, and grunting of swine, 
until we seemed to have been transported into the 
midst of a farm-yard, with all its inmates in full concert 
around us. 

After riding a short distance this morning, we came 
upon a well-worn Indian track, and following it, scram¬ 
bled to the summit of a hill, whence we had a wide pros¬ 
pect over a country diversified by rocky ridges and wav 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


77 


ing lines of upland, and enriched by groves and clumps 
of trees of varied tuft and foliage. At a distance to the 
west, to our great satisfaction, we beheld the Bed Fork 
rolling its ruddy current to the Arkansas, and found that 
we were above the point of junction. We now descended 
and pushed forward, with much difficulty, through the 
rich alluvial bottom that borders the Arkansas. Here 
the trees were interwoven with grape-vines, forming a 
kind of cordage, from trunk to trunk and limb to limb; 
there was a thick undergrowth, also, of bush and bram¬ 
ble, and such an abundance of hops, fit for gathering, 
that it was difficult for our horses to force their way 
through. 

The soil was imprinted in many places with the tracks 
of deer, and the claws of bears were to be traced on vari¬ 
ous trees. Every one was on the look-out in the hope of 
starting some game, when suddenly there was a bustle 
and a clamor in a distant part of the line. A bear! a 
bear! was the cry. We all pressed forward to be present 
at the sport, when to my infinite though whimsical 
chagrin I found it to be our two worthies, Beatte and 
Tonish, perpetrating a foul murder on a polecat, or 
skunk! The animal had ensconced itself beneath the 
trunk of a fallen tree, whence it kept up a vigorous de¬ 
fence in its peculiar style, until the surrounding forest 
was in a high state of fragrance. 

Gibes and jokes now broke out on all sides at the ex¬ 
pense of the Indian hunter, and he was advised to wear 


78 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


the scalp of the skunk as the only trophy of his prowess. 
When they found, however, that he and Tonish were ab¬ 
solutely bent upon bearing off the carcass as a peculiar 
dainty, there was a universal expression of disgust; and 
they were regarded as little better than cannibals. 

Mortified at this ignominious debut of our two hunters, 
I insisted upon their abandoning their prize and resum¬ 
ing their march. Beatte complied with a dogged, dis¬ 
contented air, and lagged behind muttering to himself. 
Tonish, however, with his usual buoyancy, consoled him¬ 
self by vociferous eulogies on the richness and delicacy 
of a roasted polecat, which he swore was considered the 
daintiest of dishes by all experienced Indian gourmands. 
It was with difficulty I could silence his loquacity by 
repeated and peremptory commands. A Frenchman’s 
vivacity, however, if repressed in one way, will break out 
in another, and Tonish now eased off his spleen by be¬ 
stowing volleys of oaths and dry blows on the pack- 
horses. I was likely to be no gainer in the end, by my 
opposition to the humors of these varlets, for after a 
time Beatte, who had lagged behind, rode up to the head 
of the line to resume his station as a guide, and I had 
the vexation to see the carcass of his prize, stripped of 
its skin, and looking like a fat sucking-pig, dangling be¬ 
hind his saddle. I made a solemn vow, however, in 
secret, that our fire should not be disgraced by the cook¬ 
ing of that polecat. 


CHAPTEB XII. 


THE CROSSING OF THE ARKANSAS. 



|E had now arrived at the river, about a quarter 
of a mile above the junction of the Eed Fork; 
but the banks were steep and crumbling, and 
the current was deep and rapid. It was impossible, 
therefore, to cross at this place; and we resumed our 
painful course through the forest, dispatching Beatte 
ahead, in search of a fording place. We had proceeded 
about a mile further, when he rejoined us, bringing in¬ 
telligence of a place hard by, where the river, for a great 
part of its breadth; was rendered fordable by sand-bars, 
and the remainder might easily be swum by the horses. 

Here, then, we made a halt. Some of the rangers set 
to work vigorously with their axes, felling trees on the 
edge of the river, wherewith to form rafts for the trans¬ 
portation of their baggage and camp equipage. Others 
patrolled the banks of the river farther up, in hopes of 
finding a better fording place; being unwilling to risk 
their horses in the deep channel. 

It was now that our worthies, Beatte and Tonish, had 
an opportunity of displaying their Indian adroitness and 

79 





80 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


resource. At the Osage village which we had passed a 
day or two before, they had procured a dry buffalo skin. 
This was now produced; cords were passed through a 
number of small eyelet-holes with which it was bor¬ 
dered, and it was drawn up, until it formed a kind of 
deep trough. Sticks were then placed athwart it on 
the inside, to keep it in shape; our camp equipage and 
a part of our baggage were placed within, and the sin¬ 
gular bark was carried down the bank and set afloat. 
A cord was attached to the prow, which Beatte took 
between his teeth, and throwing himself into the water, 
went ahead, towing the bark after him; while Tonish 
followed behind, to keep it steady and to propel it. 
Part of the way they had foothold, and were enabled to 
wade, but in the main current they were obliged to swim. 
The whole way, they whooped and yelled in the Indian 
style, until they landed safely on the opposite shore. 

The Commissioner and myself were so well pleased 
with this Indian mode of ferriage, that we determined 
to trust ourselves in the buffalo hide. Our companions, 
the Count and Mr. L., had proceeded with the horses, 
along the river-bank, in search of a ford which some of 
the rangers had discovered, about a mile and a half dis¬ 
tant. While we were waiting for the return of our ferry¬ 
man, I happened to cast my eyes upon a heap of luggage 
under a bush, and descried the sleek carcass of the pole¬ 
cat, snugly trussed up, and ready for roasting before the 
evening fire. I could not resist the temptation to plump 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


81 


it into the river, when it sunk to the bottom like a lump of 
lead; and thus our lodge was relieved from the bad odor 
which this savory viand had threatened to bring upon it. 

Our men having recrossed with their cockle-shell bark, 
it was drawn on shore, half filled with saddles, saddle¬ 
bags, and other luggage, amounting to a hundred weight; 
and being again placed in the water, I was invited to take 
my seat. It appeared to me pretty much like the em¬ 
barkation of the wise men of Gotham, who went to sea in 
a bowl: I stepped in, however, without hesitation, though 
as cautiously as possible, and sat down on top of the lug¬ 
gage, the margin of the hide sinking to within a hand’s 
breadth of the water’s edge. Rifles, fowling-pieces, and 
other articles of small bulk, were then handed in, until I 
protested against receiving any more freight. We then 
launched forth upon the stream, the bark being towed as 
before. 

It was with a sensation half serious, half comic, that 
I found myself thus afloat, on the skin of a buffalo, in 
the midst of a wild river, surrounded by wilderness, and 
towed along by a half-savage, whooping and yelling like 
a devil incarnate. To please the vanity of little Tonish, 
I discharged the double-barrelled gun, to the right and 
left, when in the centre of the stream. The report echoed 
along the woody shores, and was answered by shouts 
from some of the rangers, to the great exultation of the 
little Frenchman, who took to himself the whole glory of 
this Indian mode of navigation. 

6 


82 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Our voyage was accomplished happily; the Commis¬ 
sioner was ferried across with equal success, and all our 
effects were brought over in the same manner. Nothing 
could equal the vainglorious vaporing of little Tonish, as 
he strutted about the shore, and exulted in his superior 
skill and knowledge, to the rangers. Beatte, however, 
kept his proud, saturnine look, without a smile. He had 
a vast contempt for the ignorance of the rangers, and felt 
that he had been undervalued by them. His only obser¬ 
vation was, “ Hey now see de Indian good for someting, 
anyhow! ” 

The broad, sandy shore where we had landed, was 
intersected by innumerable tracks of elk, deer, bears, 
raccoons, turkeys, and water-fowl. The river scenery at 
this place was beautifully diversified, presenting long, 
shining reaches, bordered by willows and cotton-wood 
trees; rich bottoms, with lofty forests; among which 
towered enormous plane-trees, and the distance was 
closed in by high embowered promontories. The foliage 
had a yellow autumnal tint, which gave to the sunny 
landscape the golden tone of one of the landscapes of 
Claude Lorraine. There was animation given to the 
scene by a raft of logs and branches, on which the Cap¬ 
tain and his prime companion, the Doctor, were ferrying 
their effects across the stream; and by a long line of rang¬ 
ers on horseback, fording the river obliquely, along a se¬ 
ries of sand-bars, about a mile and a half distant 


CHAPTER Xin. 


THE CAMP OF THE GLEN. 

CAMP-GOSSIP.—PAWNEES AND THEIR HABITS.—A HUNTER’S ADVENTURE.— 
HORSES POUND, AND MEN LOST. 



EING joined by the Captain and some of the 
rangers, we struck into the woods for about 
half a mile, and then entered a wild, rocky dell, 
bordered by two lofty ridges of lime-stone, which nar¬ 
rowed as we advanced, until they met and united; mak¬ 
ing almost an angle. Here a fine spring of water rose 
among the rocks, and fed a silver rill that ran the whole 
length of the dell, freshening the grass with which it was 
carpeted. 

In this rocky nook we encamped, among tall trees. 
The rangers gradually joined us, straggling through the 
forest singly or in groups; some on horseback, some on 
foot, driving their horses before them, heavily laden with 
baggage, some dripping wet, having fallen into the river; 
for they had experienced much fatigue and trouble from 
the length of the ford and the depth and rapidity of the 
stream. They looked not unlike banditti returning with 

83 



84 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


their plunder; and the wild dell was a retreat worthy to 
receive them. The effect was heightened after dark, 
when the light of the fires was cast upon rugged-looking 
groups of men and horses; with baggage tumbled in 
heaps, rifles piled against the trees, and saddles, bridles, 
and powder-horns hanging about their trunks. 

At the encampment we were joined by the young 
Count and his companion, and the young half-breed, An¬ 
toine, who had all passed successfully by the ford. To 
my annoyance, however, I discovered that both of my 
horses were missing. I had supposed them in the 
charge of Antoine: but he, with characteristic careless¬ 
ness, had paid no heed to them, and they had probably 
wandered from the line on the opposite side of the river. 
It was arranged that Beatte and Antoine should recross 
the river at an early hour of the morning, in search of 
them. 

A fat buck and a number of wild turkeys being 
brought into the camp, we managed, with the addition 
of a cup of coffee, to make a comfortable supper; after 
which I repaired to the Captain’s lodge, which was a 
kind of council-fire and gossiping-place for the veterans 
of the camp. 

As we were conversing together, we observed, as on 
former nights, a dusky, red glow in the west, above the 
summits of the surrounding cliffs. It was again attrib¬ 
uted to Indian fires on the prairies; and supposed to be 
on the western side of the Arkansas. If so, it was 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


85 


thought they must be made by some party of Pawnees, 
as the Osage hunters seldom ventured in that quarter. 
Our half-breeds, however, pronounced them Osage fires, 
and that they were on the opposite side of the Ar¬ 
kansas. 

The conversation now turned upon the Pawnees, into 
whose hunting-grounds we were about entering. There 
is always some wild untamed tribe of Indians, who form 
for a time the terror of the frontier, and about whom 
all kinds of fearful stories are told. Such, at present, 
was the case with the Pawnees, who rove the regions 
between the Arkansas and the Red River, and the prai¬ 
ries of Texas. They were represented as admirable 
horsemen, and always on horseback,—mounted on fleet 
and hardy steeds, the wild race of the prairies. With 
these they roam the great plains that extend about the 
Arkansas, the Red River, and through Texas, to the 
Rocky Mountains; sometimes engaged in hunting the 
deer and buffalo, sometimes in warlike and predatory 
expeditions; for, like their counterparts, the sons of 
Ishmael, their hand is against every one, and every 
one’s hand against them. Some of them have no fixed 
habitation, but dwell in tents of skins, easily packed up 
and transported, so that they are here to-day, and away, 
no one knows where, to-morrow. 

One of the veteran hunters gave several anecdotes of 
their mode of fighting. Luckless, according to his ac¬ 
count, is the band of weary traders or hunters descried 


86 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


by them, in the midst of a prairie. Sometimes they will 
steal upon them by stratagem, hanging with one leg over 
the saddle, and their bodies concealed,—so that their 
troop at a distance has the appearance of a gang of wild 
horses. When they have thus gained sufficiently upon 
the enemy, they will suddenly raise themselves in their 
saddles, and come like a rushing blast, all fluttering with 
feathers, shaking their mantles, brandishing their weap¬ 
ons, and making hideous yells. In this way they seek to 
strike a panic into the horses, and put them to the scam¬ 
per, when they will pursue and carry them off in triumph. 

The best mode of defence, according to this veteran 
woodsman, is to get into the covert of some wood, or 
thicket; or, if there be none at hand, to dismount, tie the 
horses firmly head to head in a circle, so that they can¬ 
not break away and scatter, and resort to the shelter of a 
ravine, or make a hollow in the sand, where they may 
be screened from the shafts of the Pawnees. The latter 
chiefly use the bow and arrow, and are dexterous archers, 
—circling round and round their enemy, and launching 
their arrows when at full speed. They are chiefly for¬ 
midable on the prairies, where they have free career for 
their horses, and no trees to turn aside their arrows. 
They will rarely follow a flying enemy into the forest. 

Several anecdotes, also, were given, of the secrecy and 
caution with which they will follow, and hang about the 
camp of an enemy, seeking a favorable moment for plun¬ 
der or attack. 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


87 


“We must now begin to keep a sharp lookout,” said 
the Captain. “ I must issue written orders, that no man 
shall hunt without leave, or fire off a gun, on pain of rid¬ 
ing a wooden horse with a sharp back. I have a wild 
crew of young fellows unaccustomed to frontier service. 
It will be difficult to teach them caution. We are now in 
the land of a silent, watchful, crafty people, who, when 
we least suspect it, may be around us, spying on all our 
movements, and ready to pounce upon all stragglers.” 

“ How will you be able to keep your men from firing, if 
they see game while strolling round the camp ? ” asked 
one of the rangers. 

“ They must not take their guns with them unless they 
are on duty, or have permission.” 

“Ah, Captain,” cried the ranger, “that will never do 
for me. Where I go, my rifle goes. I never like to leave 
it behind ; it’s like a part of myself. There’s no one will 
take such care of it as I, and there’s nothing will take 
such care of me as my rifle.” 

“There’s truth in all that,” said the Captain, touched 
by a true hunter’s sympathy. “ I’ve had my rifle pretty 
nigh as long as I have had my wife, and a faithful friend 
it has been to me.” 

Here the Doctor, who is as keen a hunter as the Cap¬ 
tain, joined in the conversation:—“ A neighbor of mine 
says, next to my rifle, I’d as leave lend you my wife.” 

“ There’s few,” observed the Captain, “ that take care 
of their rifles as they ought to be taken care of.” 


88 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


“ Or of their wives either,” replied the Doctor, with a 
wink. 

“ That’s a fact,” rejoined the Captain. 

Word was now brought that a party of four rangers, 
headed by “ Old Ryan,” were missing. They had sepa¬ 
rated from the main body, on the opposite side of the 
river, when searching for a ford, and had straggled off, 
nobody knew whither. Many conjectures were made 
about them, and some apprehensions expressed for their 
safety. 

“I should send to look after them,” said the Captain, 
“ but old Ryan is with them, and he knows how to take 
care of himself and of them too. If it were not for him, 
I would not give much for the rest; but he is as much at 
home in the woods or on a prairie as he would be in 
his own farm-yard. He’s never lost, wherever he is. 
There’s a good gang of them to stand by one another,— 
four to watch, and one to take care of the fire.” 

“ It’s a dismal thing to get lost at night in a strange 
and wild country,” said one of the younger rangers. 

“Not if you have one or two in company,” said an 
older one. “ For my part, I could feel as cheerful in 
this hollow as in my own home, if I had but one com¬ 
rade to take turns to watch and keep the fire going. I 
could lie here for hours, and gaze up to that blazing star 
there, that seems to look down into the camp as if it 
were keeping guard over it.” 

“Aye, the stars are a kind of company to one, when 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


89 


you have to keep watch alone. That’s a cheerful star, 
too, somehow; that’s the evening star, the planet Venus 
they call it, I think.” 

“ If that’s the planet Venus,” said one of the council, 
who, I believe, was the psalm-singing schoolmaster, “ it 
bodes us no good; for I recollect reading in some book 
that the Pawnees worship that star, and sacrifice their 
prisoners to it. So I should not feel the better for the 
sight of that star in this part of the country.” 

“ Well,” said the sergeant, a thorough-bred woodsman, 
“ star or no star, I have passed many a night alone in a 
wilder place than this, and slept sound too, I’ll warrant 
you. Once, however, I had rather an uneasy time of it. 
I was belated in passing through a tract of wood, near 
the Tombigbee River; so I struck a light, made a fire, 
and turned my horse loose, while I stretched myself to 
sleep. By-and-by, I heard the wolves howl. My horse 
came crowding near me for protection, for he was ter¬ 
ribly frightened. I drove him off, but he returned, and 
drew nearer and nearer, and stood looking at me and at 
the fire, and dozing, and nodding, and tottering on his 
fore-feet, for he was powerful tired. After a while, I 
heard a strange, dismal cry. I thought at first it might 
be an owl. I heard it again, and then I knew it was not 
an owl, but must be a panther. I felt rather awkward, 
for I had no weapon but a double-bladed penknife. I 
however prepared for defence in the best way I could, 
and piled up small brands from the fire, to pepper him 


90 


CBA TON MISCELLANY. 


with, should he come nigh. The company of my horse 
now seemed a comfort to me; the poor creature laid 
down beside me and soon fell asleep, being so tired. 1 
kept watch, and nodded and dozed, and started awake, 
and looked round, expecting to see the glaring eyes of 
the panther close upon me; but, somehow or other, fa¬ 
tigue got the better of me, and I fell asleep outright. In 
the morning I found the tracks of a panther within sixty 
paces. They were as large as my two fists. He had evi¬ 
dently been walking backwards and forwards, trying to 
make up his mind to attack me; but luckily, he had not 
courage.” 

Oct. 16. I awoke before daybreak. The moon was 
shining feebly down into the glen, from among light 
drifting clouds; the camp-fires were nearly burnt out, 
and the men lying about them, wrapped in blankets. 
With the first streak of day, our huntsman, Beatte, with 
Antoine, the young half-breed, set off to recross the river, 
in search of the stray horses, in company with several 
rangers who had left their rifles on the opposite shore. 
As the ford was deep, and they were obliged to cross in 
a diagonal line, against a rapid current, they had to be 
mounted on the tallest and strongest horses. 

By eight o’clock, Beatte returned. He had found the 
horses, but had lost Antoine. The latter, he said, was 
a boy, a greenhorn, that knew nothing of the woods. He 
had wandered out of sight of him, and got lost. How¬ 
ever, there were plenty more for him to fall in company 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


91 


with, as some of the rangers had gone astray also, and 
old Ryan and his party had not returned. 

We waited until the morning was somewhat advanced, 
in hopes of being rejoined by the stragglers, but they did 
not make their appearance. The Captain observed, that 
the Indians on the opposite side of the river were all 
well disposed to the whites; so that no serious appre¬ 
hensions need be entertained for the safety of the miss¬ 
ing. The greatest danger was, that their horses might 
be stolen in the night by straggling Osages. He deter¬ 
mined, therefore, to proceed, leaving a rear-guard in the 
camp to await their arrival. 

I sat on a rock that overhung the spring at the upper 
part of the dell, and amused myself by watching the 
changing scene before me. First, the preparations for 
departure. Horses driven in from the purlieus of the 
camp ; rangers riding about among rocks and bushes in 
quest of others that had strayed to a distance; the 
bustle of packing up camp-equipage, and the clamor 
after kettles and frying-pans borrowed by one mess from 
another, mixed up with oaths and exclamations at restive 
horses, or others that had wandered away to graze after 
being packed: among which the voice of our little 
Frenchman, Tonish, was particularly to be distinguished. 

The bugle sounded the signal to mount and march. 
The troop filed off in irregular line down the glen, and 
through the open forest, winding and gradually disap¬ 
pearing among the trees, though the clamor of voices 


92 


CRA TON MISCELLANY, 


and the notes of the bugle could be heard for some time 
afterwards. The rear-guard remained under the trees in 
the lower part of the dell: some on horseback, with their 
rifles on their shoulders ; others seated by the fire or 
lying on the ground, gossiping in a low, lazy tone of 
voice, their horses unsaddled, standing and dozing 
around; while one of the rangers, profiting by this inter¬ 
val of leisure, was shaving himself before a pocket-mirror 
stuck against the trunk of a tree. 

The clamor of voices and the notes of the bugle at 
length died away, and the glen relapsed into quiet and 
silence, broken occasionally by the low murmuring tone 
of the group around the fire, or the pensive whistle of 
some laggard among the trees; or the rustling of the 
yellow leaves, which the lightest breath of air brought 
down in wavering showers, a sign of the departing glories 
of the year. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


DEER-SHOOTING.—LIFE ON THE PRAIRIES.—BEAUTIFUL ENCAMPMENT.— 
HUNTER’S LUCK.—ANECDOTES OF THE DELAWARES AND THEIR SUPERSTI¬ 
TIONS. 



|AVENG passed through the skirt of woodland 
bordering the river, we ascended the hills, 
taking a westerly course through an undulat¬ 
ing country of “ oak openings,” where the eye stretched 
over wide tracts of hill and dale, diversified by forests, 
groves, and clumps of trees. As we were proceeding at a 
slow pace, those who were at the head of the line de¬ 
scried four deer grazing on a grassy slope about half a 
mile distant. They apparently had not perceived our 
approach, and continued to graze in perfect tranquillity. 
A young ranger obtained permission from the Captain to 
go in pursuit of them, and the troop halted in lengthened 
line, watching him in silence. Walking his horse slowly 
and cautiously, he made a circuit until a screen of wood 
intervened between him and the deer. Dismounting 
then, he left his horse among the trees, and creeping 
round a knoll, was hidden from our view. We now kept 
our eyes intently fixed on the deer, which continued 

93 






94 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


grazing, unconscious of their danger. Presently there 
was the sharp report of a rifle; a fine buck made a con¬ 
vulsive bound and fell to the earth; his companions 
scampered off. Immediately our whole line of march 
was broken; there was a helter-shelter galloping of the 
youngsters of the troop, eager to get a shot at the fu¬ 
gitives ; and one of the most conspicuous personages in 
the chase was our little Frenchman Tonish on his silver- 
gray, having abandoned his pack-horses at the first sight 
of the deer. It was some time before our scattered 
forces could be recalled by the bugle, and our march re¬ 
sumed. 

Two or three times in the course of the day we were 
interrupted by hurry-scurry scenes of the kind. The 
young men of the troop were full of excitement on en¬ 
tering an unexplored country abounding in game, and 
they were too little accustomed to discipline or restraint 
to be kept in order. No one, however, was more unman¬ 
ageable than Tonish. Having an intense conceit of his 
skill as a hunter, and an irrepressible passion for dis¬ 
play, he was continually sallying forth, like an ill-broken 
hound, whenever any game was started, and had as often 
to be whipped back. 

At length his curiosity got a salutary check. A fat 
doe came bounding along in full view of the whole line. 
Tonish dismounted, levelled his rifle, and had a fair 
shot. The doe kept on. He sprang upon his horse, 
stood up on the saddle like a posture-master, and con- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


95 


tinued gazing after the animal as* if certain to see it fall. 
The doe, however, kept on its way rejoicing; a laugh 
broke out along the line, the little Frenchman slipped 
quietly into his saddle, began to belabor and blaspheme 
the wandering pack-horses, as if they had been to blame, 
and for some time we were relieved from his vaunting 
and vaporing. 

In one place of our march we came to the remains of 
an old Indian encampment, on the banks of a fine stream, 
with the moss-grown skulls of deer lying here and there 
about it. As we were in the Pawnee country, it was 
supposed, of course, to have been a camp of those formi¬ 
dable rovers; the Doctor, however, after considering 
the shape and disposition of the lodges, pronounced it 
the camp of some bold Delawares, who had probably 
made a brief and dashing excursion into these danger¬ 
ous hunting-grounds. 

Having proceeded some distance further, we observed 
a couple of figures on horseback, slowly moving parallel 
to us along the edge of a naked hill about two miles 
distant; and apparently reconnoitring us. There was a 
halt, and much gazing and conjecturing. Were they In¬ 
dians ? If Indians, were they Pawnees ? There is some¬ 
thing exciting to the imagination and stirring to the 
feelings, while traversing these hostile plains, in seeing 
a horseman prowling along the horizon. It is like de¬ 
scrying a sail at sea in time of war, when it may be either 
a privateer or a pirate. Our conjectures were soon set 


96 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


at rest by reconnoitring the two horsemen through a 
small spy-glass, when they proved to be two of the men 
we had left at the camp, who had set out to rejoin us, 
and had wandered from the track. 

Our march this day was animating and delightful. We 
were in a region of adventure; breaking our way through 
a country hitherto untrodden by white men, excepting 
perchance by some solitary trapper. The weather was 
in its perfection, temperate, genial, and enlivening; a 
deep blue sky with a few light feathery clouds, an at¬ 
mosphere of perfect transparency, an air pure and bland, 
and a glorious country spreading out far and wide in the 
golden sunshine of an autumnal day; but all silent, life¬ 
less, without a human habitation, and apparently with¬ 
out a human inhabitant! It was as if a ban hung over 
this fair but fated region. The very Indians dared not 
abide here, but made it a mere scene of perilous enter¬ 
prise, to hunt for a few days, and then away. 

After a march of about fifteen miles west we encamped 
in a beautiful peninsula, made by the windings and 
doublings of a deep, clear, and almost motionless brook, 
and covered by an open grove of lofty and magnificent 
trees. Several hunters immediately started forth in 
quest of game before the noise of the camp should 
frighten it from the vicinity. Our man, Beatte, also took 
his rifle and went forth alone, in a different course from 
the rest. 

For my own part, I laid on the grass under the trees, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


97 


and built castles in the clouds, and indulged in the very 
luxury of rural repose. Indeed I can scarcely conceive a 
kind of life more calculated to put both mind and body 
in a healthful tone. A morning’s ride of several hours 
diversified by hunting incidents; an encampment in the 
afternoon under some noble grove on the borders of a 
stream; an evening banquet of venison, fresh killed, 
roasted, or broiled on the coals; turkeys just from the 
thickets, and wild honey from the trees; and all relished 
with an appetite unknown to the gourmets of the cities. 
And at night—such sweet sleeping in the open air, or 
waking and gazing at the moon and stars, shining be¬ 
tween the trees! 

On the present occasion, however, we had not much 
reason to boast of our larder. But one deer had been 
killed during the day, and none of that had reached our 
lodge. We were fain, therefore, to stay our keen appe¬ 
tites by some scraps of turkey brought from the last en¬ 
campment, eked out with a slice or two of salt pork. 
This scarcity, however, did not continue long. Before 
dark, a young hunter returned well laden with spoil. He 
bad shot a deer, cut it up in an artist-like style, and, 
putting the meat in a kind of sack made of the hide, had 
slung it across his shoulder and trudged with it to camp. 

Not long after, Beatte made his appearance with a fat 
doe across his horse. It was the first game he had 
brought in, and I was glad to see him with a trophy that 
might efface the memory of the polecat. He laid the 
7 


98 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


carcass down by our fire without saying a word, and then 
turned to unsaddle bis horse; nor could any questions 
from us about his hunting draw from him more than 
laconic replies. If Beatte, however, observed this Indian 
taciturnity about what he had done, Tonish made up for 
it by boasting of what he meant to do. Now that we 
were in a good hunting country, he meant to take the 
field, and, if we would take his word for it, our lodge 
would henceforth be overwhelmed with game. Luckily 
his talking did not prevent his working; the doe was 
skilfully dissected, several fat ribs roasted before the 
fire, the coffee-kettle replenished, and in a little while we 
were enabled to indemnify ourselves luxuriously for our 
late meagre repast. 

The Captain did not return until late, and he returned 
empty-handed. He had been in pursuit of his usual 
game, the deer, when he came upon the tracks of a gang 
of about sixty elk. Having never killed an animal of the 
kind, and the elk being at this moment an object of am¬ 
bition among all the veteran hunters of the camp, he 
abandoned his pursuit of the deer, and followed the 
newly discovered track. After some time he came in 
sight of the elk, and had several fair chances of a shot, 
but was anxious to bring down a large buck which kept 
in the advance. Finding at length there was danger of 
the whole gang escaping him, he fired at a doe. The shot 
took effect, but the animal had sufficient strength to keep 
on for a time with its companions. From the tracks of 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


99 


blood lie felt confident it was mortally wounded, but 
evening coming on, lie could not keep the trail, and had 
to give up the search until morning. 

Old Eyan and his little band had not yet rejoined us, 
neither had our young half-breed Antoine made his ap¬ 
pearance. It was determined, therefore, to remain at 
our encampment for the following day, to give time for 
all stragglers to arrive. 

The conversation this evening, among the old hunts¬ 
men, turned upon the Delaware tribe, one of whose 
encampments we had passed in the course of the day; 
and anecdotes were given of their prowess in war and 
dexterity in hunting. They used to be deadly foes of the 
Osages, who stood in great awe of their desperate valor, 
though they were apt to attribute it to a whimsical 
cause. “ Look at the Delawares,” would they say, “ dey 
got short leg—no can run—must stand and fight a great 
heap.” In fact, the Delawares are rather sliort-legged, 
while the Osages are remarkable for length of limb. 

The expeditions of the Delawares, whether of war or 
hunting, are wide and fearless; a small band of them 
will penetrate far into these dangerous and hostile wilds, 
and will push their encampments even to the Eocky 
Mountains. This daring temper may be in some meas¬ 
ure encouraged by one of the superstitions of their 
creed. They believe that a guardian spirit, in the form 
of a great eagle, watches over them, hovering in the sky, 
far out of sight. Sometimes, when well pleased with 


100 


CRA YON MISCELLANY. 


them, he wheels down into the lower regions, and may 
be seen circling with wide-spread wings against the 
white clouds ; at such times the seasons are propitious, 
the corn grows finely, and they have great success in 
hunting. Sometimes, however, he is angry, and then he 
vents his rage in the thunder, which is his voice, and the 
lightning, which is the flashing of his eye, and strikes 
dead the object of his displeasure. 

The Delawares make sacrifices to this spirit, who occa¬ 
sionally lets drop a feather from his wing in token of 
satisfaction. These feathers render the wearer invisible 
and invulnerable. Indeed, the Indians generally con¬ 
sider the feathers of the eagle possessed of occult and 
sovereign virtues. 

At one time a party of the Delawares, in the course of 
a bold excursion into the Pawnee hunting-grounds, were 
surrounded on one of the great plains, and nearly de¬ 
stroyed. The remnant took refuge on the summit of one 
of those isolated and conical hills which rise almost like 
artificial mounds, from the midst of the prairies. Here 
the chief warrior, driven almost to despair, sacrificed his 
horse to the tutelar spirit. Suddenly an enormous eagle, 
rushing down from the sky, bore off the victim in his 
talons, and mounting into the air, dropped a quill-feathei 
from his wing. The chief caught it up with joy, bound it 
to his forehead, and, leading his followers down the hill, 
cut his way through the enemy with great slaughter, and 
without any one of his party receiving a wound. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE SEARCH FOR THE ELK.—PAWNEE STORIES. 


ITH the morning dawn, the prime hunters of 
the camp were all on the alert, and set off in 
different directions, to beat up the country for 
game. The Captain’s brother, Sergeant Bean, was among 
the first, and returned before breakfast with success, 
having killed a fat doe almost within the purlieus of the 
camp. 

When breakfast was over, the Captain mounted his 
horse, to go in quest of the elk which he had wounded 
on the preceding evening; and which, he was persuaded, 
had received its death-wound. I determined to join him 
in the search, and we accordingly sallied forth together, 
accompanied also by his brother, the sergeant, and a 
lieutenant. Two rangers followed on foot, to bring home 
the carcass of the doe which the sergeant had killed. 
We had not ridden far when we came to where it lay, on 
the side of a hill, in the midst of a beautiful woodland 
scene. The two rangers immediately fell to work, with 
true hunters’ skill to dismember it, and prepare it for 
transportation to the camp, while we continued on our 

101 





102 


GRA TON MISCELLANY. 


course. We passed along sloping hill-sides, among 
skirts of thicket and scattered forest-trees, until we came 
to a place where the long herbage was pressed down 
with numerous elk-beds. Here the captain had first 
roused the gang of elks; and, after looking about dili¬ 
gently for a little while, he pointed out their “ trail,” the 
footprints of which were as large as those of horned 
cattle. He now put himself upon the track, and went 
quietly forward, the rest of us following him in Indian 
file. At length he halted at the place where the elk had 
been when shot at. Spots of blood on the surrounding 
herbage showed that the shot had been effective. The 
wounded animal had evidently kept for some distance 
with the rest of the herd, as could be seen by sprinklings 
of blood, here and there, on the shrubs and weeds bor¬ 
dering the trail. These at length suddenly disappeared. 
“ Somewhere hereabout,” said the Captain, “ the elk must 
have turned off from the gang. Whenever they feel 
themselves mortally wounded, they will turn aside and 
seek some out-of-the-way place to die alone.” 

There was something in this picture of the last mo¬ 
ments of a wounded deer to touch the sympathies of one 
not hardened to the gentle disports of the chase ; such 
sympathies, however, are but transient. Man is natu¬ 
rally an animal of prey; and, however changed by civili¬ 
zation, will readily relapse into his instinct for destruc¬ 
tion. I found my ravenous and sanguinary propensities 
daily growing stronger upon the prairies. 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


103 


After looking about for a little while, the Captain suc¬ 
ceeded in finding the separate trail of the wounded elk, 
which turned off almost at right angles from that of the 
herd, and entered an open forest of scattered trees. The 
traces of blood became more faint and rare, and occurred 
at greater distances; at length they ceased altogether, 
and the ground was so hard, and the herbage so much 
parched and withered, that the footprints of the animal 
could no longer be perceived. 

“ The elk must lie somewhere in this neighborhood/' 
said the Captain, “as you may know by those turkey- 
buzzards wheeling about in the air; for they always 
hover in that way above some carcass. However, the 
dead elk cannot get away, so let us follow the trail of 
the living ones: they may have halted at no great dis¬ 
tance, and we may find them grazing, and get another 
crack at them.” 

We accordingly returned, and resumed the trail of the 
elks, which led us a straggling course over hill and dale, 
covered with scattered oaks. Every now and then we 
would catch a glimpse of a deer bounding away across 
some glade of the forest, but the captain was not to be 
diverted from his elk-hunt by such inferior game. A 
large flock of wild turkeys, too, were roused by the 
trampling of our horses; some scampered off as fast as 
their long legs could carry them; others fluttered up 
into the trees, where they remained with outstretched 
necks, gazing at us. The Captain would not allow a rifle 


104 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


to be discharged at them, lest it should alarm the elk, 
which he hoped to find in the vicinity. At length we 
came to where the forest ended in a steep bank, and the 
Ked Fork wound its way below us, between broad sandy 
shores. The trail descended the bank, and we could 
trace it, with our eyes, across the level sands, until it 
terminated in the river, which, it was evident, the gang 
had forded on the preceding evening. 

“It is needless to follow on any further,” said the Cap¬ 
tain. “ The elk must have been much frightened, and, 
after crossing the river, may have kept on for twenty 
miles without stopping.” 

Our little party now divided, the lieutenant and ser¬ 
geant making a circuit in quest of game, and the Captain 
and myself taking the direction of the camp. On our 
way, we came to a buffalo track more than a year old. 
It was not wider than an ordinary footpath, and worn 
deep into the soil; for these animals follow each other in 
single file. Shortly afterwards, we met two rangers on 
foot, hunting. They had wounded an elk, but he had 
escaped; and in pursuing him, had found the one shot 
by the Captain on the preceding evening. They turned 
back, and conducted us to it. It was a noble animal, as 
large as a yearling heifer, and lay in an open part of the 
forest, about a mile and a half distant from the place 
where it had been shot. The turkey-buzzards which we 
had previously noticed were wheeling in the air above it. 
The observation of the Captain seemed verified. The 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


105 


poor animal, as life was ebbing away, had apparently 
abandoned its unhurt companions, and turned aside to 
die alone. 

The Captain and the two rangers forthwith fell to 
work, with their hunting-knives, to flay and cut up the 
carcass. It was already tainted on the inside, but ample 
collops were cut from the ribs and haunches, and laid 
in a heap on the outstretched hide. Holes were then 
cut along the border of the hide, raw thongs were passed 
through them, and the whole drawn up like a sack, 
which was swung behind the Captain’s saddle. All this 
while the turkey-buzzards were soaring overhead, wait¬ 
ing for our departure, to swoop down and banquet on 
the carcass. 

The wreck of the poor elk being thus dismantled, the 
Captain and myself mounted our horses, and jogged back 
to the camp, while the two rangers resumed their hunting. 

On reaching the camp, I found there our young half- 
breed, Antoine. After separating from Beatte, in the 
search after the stray horses on the other side of the 
Arkansas, he had fallen upon a wrong track, which he 
followed for several miles, when he overtook old Ryan 
and his party, and found he had been following their 
traces. 

They all forded the Arkansas about eight miles above 
our crossing-place, and found their way to our late en¬ 
campment in the glen, where the rear-guard we had left 
behind was waiting for them. Antoine, being well 


106 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


mounted, and somewhat impatient to rejoin us, had 
pushed on alone, following our trail, to our present en¬ 
campment, and bringing the carcass of a young bear 
which he had killed. 

Our camp, during the residue of the day, presented a 
mingled picture of bustle and repose. Some of the men 
were busy round the fires, jerking and roasting venison 
and bear’s meat, to be packed up as a future supply. 
Some were stretching and dressing the skins of the ani¬ 
mals they had killed; others were washing their clothes 
in the brook, and hanging them on the bushes to dry; 
while many were lying on the grass, and lazily gossip¬ 
ing in the shade. Every now and then a hunter would 
return, on horseback or on foot, laden with game, or 
empty-handed. Those who brought home any spoil, de¬ 
posited it at the Captain’s fire, and then filed off to their 
respective messes, to relate their day’s exploits to their 
companions. The game killed at this camp consisted of 
six deer, one elk, two bears, and six or eight turkeys. 

During the last two or three days, since their wild 
Indian achievement in navigating the river, our retainers 
had risen in consequence among the rangers; and now I 
found Tonish making himself a complete oracle among 
some of the raw and inexperienced recruits, who had 
never been in the wilderness. He had continually a knot 
hanging about him, and listening to his extravagant tales 
about the Pawnees, with whom he pretended to have 
had fearful encounters. His representations, in fact, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


107 


were calculated to inspire liis hearers with an awful idea 
of the foe into whose lands they were intruding. Accord¬ 
ing to his accounts, the rifle of the white man was no 
match for the bow and arrow of the Pawnee. When the 
rifle was once discharged, it took time and trouble to load 
it again, and in the meantime the enemy could keep on 
launching his shafts as fast as he could draw his bow. 
Then the Pawnee, according to Tonish, could shoot, with 
unerring aim, three hundred yards, and send his arrow 
clean through and through a buffalo; nay, he had known 
a Pawnee shaft pass through one buffalo and wound 
another. And then the way the Pawnees sheltered 
themselves from the shots of their enemy: they would 
hang with one leg over the saddle, crouching their bodies 
along the opposite side of their horse, and would shoot 
their arrows from under his neck, while at full speed! 

If Tonish was to be believed, there was peril at every 
step in these debatable grounds of the Indian tribes. 
Pawnees lurked unseen among the thickets and ravines. 
They had their scouts and sentinels on the summit of the 
mounds which command a view over the prairies, where 
they lay crouched in the tall grass; only now and then 
raising their heads to watch the movements of any war 
or hunting party that might be passing in lengthened 
line below. At night, they would lurk round an encamp¬ 
ment ; crawling through the grass, and imitating the 
movements of a wolf, so as to deceive the sentinel on 
the outpost, until, having arrived sufficiently near, they 


108 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


would speed an arrow through his heart, and retreat un¬ 
discovered. In telling his stories, Tonish would appeal 
from time to time to Beatte for the truth of what he 
said; the only reply would be a nod, or shrug of the 
shoulders; the latter being divided in mind between a 
distaste for the gasconading spirit of his comrade, and a 
sovereign contempt for the inexperience of the young 
rangers in all that he considered true knowledge. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A SICK-CAMP.—THE MARCH.—THE DISABLED HORSE.—OLD RYAN AND THE 
STRAGGLERS. — SYMPTOMS OF CHANGE OF WEATHER, AND CHANGE OF 
HUMORS. 

October 18. 

E prepared to march at the usual hour, but 
word was brought to the Captain that three of 
the rangers, who had been attacked with the 
measles, were unable to proceed, and that another one 
was missing. The last was an old frontiersman, by the 
name of Sawyer, who had gained years without experi¬ 
ence : and having sallied forth to hunt, on the preceding 
day, had probably lost his way on the prairies. A guard 
of ten men was, therefore, left to take care of the sick, 
and wait for the straggler. If the former recovered suf¬ 
ficiently in the course of two or three days, they were to 
rejoin the main body, otherwise to be escorted back to 
the garrison. 

Taking our leave of the sick-camp, we shaped our 
course westward, along the heads of small streams, all 
wandering, in deep ravines, towards the Red Fork. The 
land was high and undulating, or “rolling,” as it is 
termed in the West; with a poor hungry soil mingled 

109 









110 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


with the sandstone, which is unusual in this part of the 
country, and checkered with harsh forests of post-oak 
and black-jack. 

In the course of the morning I received a lesson on 
the importance of being chary of one’s steed on the prai¬ 
ries. The one I rode surpassed in action most horses of 
the troop, and was of great mettle and a generous spirit. 
In crossing the deep ravines, he would scramble up the 
steep banks like a cat, and was always for leaping the 
narrow runs of water. I was not aware of the impru¬ 
dence of indulging him in such exertions, until, in leap¬ 
ing him across a small brook, I felt him immediately 
falter beneath me. He limped forward a short distance, 
but soon fell stark lame, having sprained his shoulder. 
What was to be done ? He could not keep up with the 
troop, and was too valuable to be abandoned on the prai¬ 
rie. The only alternative was to send him back to join 
the invalids in the sick-camp, and to share their fortunes. 
Nobody, however, seemed disposed to lead him back, 
although I offered a liberal reward. Either the stories 
of Tonish about the Pawnees had spread an apprehen¬ 
sion of lurking foes and imminent perils on the prairies, 
or there was a fear of missing the trail and getting lost. 
At length two young men stepped forward and agreed 
to go in company, so that, should they be benighted on 
the prairies, there might be one to watch while the other 
slept. 

The horse was accordingly consigned to their care, and 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


Ill 


I looked after him with a rueful eye, as he limped off, for 
it seemed as if, with him, all strength and buoyancy had 
departed from me. 

I looked round for a steed to supply his place, and 
fixed my eyes upon the gallant gray which I had trans¬ 
ferred at the Agency to Tonish. The moment, how¬ 
ever, that I hinted about his dismounting and taking 
up with the supernumerary pony, the little varlet broke 
out into vociferous remonstrances and lamentations, 
gasping and almost strangling, in his eagerness to give 
vent to them. I saw that to unhorse him would be to 
prostrate his spirit and cut his vanity to the quick. 
I had not the heart to inflict such a wound, or to 
bring down the poor devil from his transient vainglory ; 
so I left him in possession of his gallant gray, and 
contented myself with shifting my saddle to the jaded 
pony. 

I was now sensible of the complete reverse to which a 
horseman is exposed on the prairies. I felt how com¬ 
pletely the spirit of the rider depended upon his steed. 
I had hitherto been able to make excursions at will 
from the line, and to gallop in pursuit of any object of 
interest or curiosity. I was now reduced to the tone of 
the jaded animal I bestrode, and doomed to plod on 
patiently and slowly after my file-leader. Above all, I 
was made conscious how unwise it is, on expeditions 
of the kind, where a man’s life may depend upon the 
strength and speed and freshness of his horse, to task 


112 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


the generous animal by any unnecessary exertion of his 
powers. 

I have observed that the wary and experienced hunts¬ 
man and traveller of the prairies is always sparing of his 
horse, when on a journey; never, except in emergency, 
putting him off of a walk. The regular journeyings of 
frontiersmen and Indians, when on a long march, seldom 
exceed above fifteen miles a day, and are generally about 
ten or twelve, and they never indulge in capricious gal¬ 
loping. Many of those, however, with whom I was trav¬ 
elling were young and inexperienced, and full of excite¬ 
ment at finding themselves in a country abounding with 
game. It was impossible to retain them in the sobriety 
of a march, or to keep them to the line. As we broke 
our way through the coverts and ravines, and the deer 
started up and scampered off to the right and left, the 
rifle-balls would whiz after them, and our young hunters 
dash off in pursuit. At one time they made a grand 
burst after what they supposed to be a gang of bears, 
but soon pulled up on discovering them to be black 
wolves, prowling in company. 

After a march of about twelve miles we encamped, a 
little after mid-day, on the borders of a brook which 
loitered through a deep ravine. In the course of the 
afternoon old Ryan, the Nestor of the camp, made his 
appearance, followed by his little band of stragglers. 
He was greeted with joyful acclamations, which showed 
the estimation in which he was held by his brother 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


113 


woodmen. The little band came laden with venison; a 
fine haunch of which the veteran hunter laid, as a pres¬ 
ent, by the Captain’s fire. 

Our men, Beatte and Tonish, both sallied forth, early 
in the afternoon, to hunt. Towards evening the former 
returned, with a fine buck across his horse. He laid it 
down, as usual, in silence, and proceeded to unsaddle 
and turn his horse loose. Tonish came back without 
any game, but with much more glory,—having made 
several capital shots, though unluckily the wounded deer 
had all escaped him. 

There was an abundant supply of meat in the camp; 
for besides other game, three elk had been killed. The 
wary and veteran woodmen were all busy jerking meat, 
against a time of scarcity; the less experienced revelled 
in present abundance, leaving the morrow to provide for 
itself. 

On the following morning, (Oct. 19,) I succeeded in 
changing my pony and a reasonable sum of money for 
a strong and active horse. It was a great satisfaction 
to find myself once more tolerably well mounted. I 
perceived, however, that there would be little difficulty 
in making a selection from among the troop, for the 
rangers had all that propensity for “swapping,” or, as 
they term it, “trading,” which pervades the West. In 
the course of our expedition there was scarce a horse, 
rifle, powder-horn, or blanket, that did not change own¬ 
ers several times; and one keen “trader” boasted of 
8 


114 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


having by dint of frequent bargains changed a bad 
horse into a good one, and put a hundred dollars in 
his pocket. 

The morning was lowering and sultry, with low mut¬ 
tering of distant thunder. The change of weather had 
its effect upon the spirits of the troop. The camp was 
unusually sober and quiet; there was none of the accus¬ 
tomed farm-yard melody of crowing and cackling at day¬ 
break ; none of the bursts of merriment, the loud jokes 
and banterings, that had commonly prevailed during the 
bustle of equipment. Now and then might be heard a 
short strain of a song, a faint laugh, or a solitary whis¬ 
tle; but, in general, every one went silently and dog¬ 
gedly about the duties of the camp, or the preparations 
for departure. 

When the time arrived to saddle and mount, five 
horses were reported as missing; although all the woods 
and thickets had been beaten up for some distance round 
the camp. Several rangers were dispatched to “ skir ” 
the country round in quest of them. In the meantime 
the thunder continued to growl, and we had a passing 
shower. The horses, like their riders, were affected by 
the change of weather. They stood here and there about 
the camp, some saddled and bridled, others loose, but all 
spiritless and dozing, with stooping head, one hind leg 
partly drawn up so as to rest on the point of the hoof, 
and the whole hide reeking with the rain, and sending 
up wreaths of vapor. The men, too, waited in listless 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


115 


groups the return of their comrades who had gone in 
quest of the horses; now and then turning up an anxious 
eye to the drifting clouds, which boded an approach¬ 
ing storm. Gloomy weather inspires gloomy thoughts. 
Some expressed fears that we were dogged by some 
party of Indians, who had stolen the horses in the night. 
The most prevalent apprehension, however, was, that 
they had returned on their traces to our last encamp¬ 
ment, or had started off on a direct line for Fort Gibson. 
In this respect, the instinct of horses is said to resemble 
that of the pigeon. They will strike for home by a direct 
course, passing through tracts of wilderness which they 
have never before traversed. 

After delaying until the morning was somewhat ad¬ 
vanced, a lieutenant with a guard was appointed to await 
the return of the rangers, and we set off on our day’s 
journey, considerably reduced in numbers; much, as I 
thought, to the discomposure of some of the troop, who 
intimated that we might prove too weak-handed in case 
of an encounter with the Pawnees. 


CHAPTER XVH 


THUNDER-STORM ON THE PRAIRIES.—THE STORM-ENCAMPMENT.—NIGHT SCENB. 
—INDIAN STORIES.—A FRIGHTENED HORSE. 

march for a part of the day lay a little to 
3 south of west, through straggling forests 
the kind of low, scrubbed trees already men- 
d “post-oaks,” and “black-jacks.’* The soil 
of these “ oak barrens ” is loose and unsound; being little 
better at times than a mere quicksand, in which, in rainy 
weather, the horse’s hoof slips from side to side, and 
now and then sinks in a rotten, spongy turf, to the fet¬ 
lock. Such was the case at present in consequence of 
successive thunder-showers, through which we draggled 
along in dogged silence. Several deer were roused by 
our approach, and scudded across the forest-glades; but 
no one, as formerly, broke the line of march to pursue 
them. At one time we passed the bones and horns of 
a buffalo, and at another time a buffalo track not above 
three days old. These signs of the vicinity of this grand 
game of the prairies had a reviving effect on the spirits 
of our huntsmen; but it was of transient duration. 

In crossing a prairie of moderate extent, rendered lit- 

116 





A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


117 


tie better than a slippery bog by the recent showers, 
we were overtaken by a violent thunder-gust. The rain 
came rattling upon us in torrents, and spattered up like 
steam along the ground; the whole landscape was sud¬ 
denly wrapped in gloom that gave a vivid effect to the 
intense sheets of lightning, while the thunder seemed 
to burst over our very heads, and was reverberated by 
the groves and forests that checked and skirted the prai¬ 
rie. Man and beast were so pelted, drenched, and con¬ 
founded, that the line was thrown in complete confusion; 
—some of the horses were so frightened as to be almost 
unmanageable, and our scattered cavalcade looked like 
a tempest-tossed fleet, driving hither and thither, at the 
mercy of wind and wave. 

At length, at half-past two o’clock, we came to a halt, 
and gathering together our forces, encamped in an open 
and lofty grove, with a prairie on one side and a stream 
on the other. The forest immediately rang with the 
sound of the axe and the crash of falling trees. Huge 
fires were soon blazing; blankets were stretched before 
them, by way of tents; booths were hastily reared of 
bark and skins; every fire had its group drawn close 
round it, drying and warming themselves, or preparing a 
comforting meal. Some of the rangers were discharg¬ 
ing and cleaning their rifles, which had been exposed to 
the rain; while the horses, relieved from their saddles 
and burdens, rolled in the wet grass. 

The showers continued from time to time, until late 


118 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


in the evening. Before dark, our horses were gathered 
in and tethered about the skirts of the camp, within the 
outposts, through fear of Indian prowlers, who are apt 
to take advantage of stormy nights for their depredations 
and assaults. As the night thickened, the huge fires 
became more and more luminous; lighting up masses 
of the overhanging foliage, and leaving other parts of 
the grove in deep gloom. Every fire had its goblin 
group around it, while the tethered horses were dimly 
seen, like spectres, among the thickets; excepting that 
here and there a gray one stood out in bright relief. 

The grove, thus fitfully lighted up by the ruddy glare 
of the fires, resembled a vast leafy dome, walled in by 
opaque darkness; but every now and then two or three 
quivering flashes of lightning in quick succession would 
suddenly reveal a vast champaign country, where fields 
and forests, and running streams, would start, as it were, 
into existence for a few brief seconds, and, before the eye 
could ascertain them, vanish again into gloom. 

A thunder-storm on a prairie, as upon the ocean, de¬ 
rives grandeur and sublimity from the wild and bound¬ 
less waste over which it rages and bellows. It is not 
surprising that these awful phenomena of nature should 
be objects of superstitious reverence to the poor savages, 
and that they should consider the thunder the angry 
voice of the Great Spirit. As our half-breeds sat gossip¬ 
ing round the fire, I drew from them some of the notions 
entertained on the subject by their Indian friends. The 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


119 


latter declare that extinguished thunderbolts are some¬ 
times picked up by hunters on the prairies, who use 
them for the heads of arrows and lances, and that any 
warrior thus armed is invincible. Should a thunder¬ 
storm occur, however, during battle, he is liable to be 
carried away by the thunder, and never heard of more. 

A warrior of the Konza tribe, hunting on a prairie, was 
overtaken by a storm, and struck down senseless by the 
thunder. On recovering, he beheld the thunderbolt lying 
on the ground, and a horse standing beside it. Snatch¬ 
ing up the bolt, he sprang upon the horse, but found, too 
late, that he was astride of the lightning. In an instant 
he was whisked away over prairies and forests, and 
streams and deserts, until he was flung senseless at the 
foot of the Rocky Mountains; whence, on recovering, it 
took him several months to return to his own people. 

This story reminded me of an Indian tradition related 
by a traveller, of the fate of a warrior who saw the thun¬ 
der lying upon the ground, with a beautifully wrought 
moccasin on each side of it. Thinking he had found a 
prize, he put on the moccasins; but they bore him away 
to the land of spirits, whence he never returned. 

These are simple and artless tales, but they had a wild 
and romantic interest heard from the lips of half savage 
narrators, round a hunter’s fire, in a stormy night, with a 
forest on one side and a howling waste on the other; and 
where, peradventure, savage foes might be lurking in the 
outer darkness. 


120 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Our conversation was interrupted by a loud clap of 
thunder, followed immediately by the sound of a horse 
galloping off madly into the waste. Every one listened 
in mute silence. The hoofs resounded vigorously for a 
time, but grew fainter and fainter, until they died away 
in remote distance. 

When the sound was no longer to be heard, the listen¬ 
ers turned to conjecture what could have caused this sud¬ 
den scamper. Some thought the horse had been star¬ 
tled by the thunder; others, that some lurking Indian 
had galloped off with him. To this it was objected, 
that the usual mode with the Indians is to steal quietly 
upon the horse, take off his fetters, mount him gently, and 
walk him off as silently as possible, leading off others, 
without any unusual stir or noise to disturb the camp. 

On the other hand, it was stated as a common practice 
with the Indians, to creep among a troop of horses when 
grazing at night, mount one quietly, and then start off 
suddenly at full speed. Nothing is so contagious among 
horses as a panic; one sudden break-away of this kind 
will sometimes alarm the whole troop, and they will set 
off, helter-skelter, after the leader. 

Every one who had a horse grazing on the skirts ol 
the camp was uneasy lest his should be the fugitive; but 
it was impossible to ascertain the fact until morning. 
Those who had tethered their horses felt more secure ; 
though horses thus tied up, and limited to a short range 
at night, are apt to fall off in flesh and strength, during a 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


121 


long march ; and many of the horses of the troop already 
gave signs of being wayworn. 

After a gloomy and unruly night, the morning dawned 
bright and clear, and a glorious sunrise transformed the 
whole landscape, as if by magic. The late dreary wil¬ 
derness brightened into a fine open country, with stately 
groves, and clumps of oaks of a gigantic size, some of 
which stood singly, as if planted for ornament and shade, 
in the midst of rich meadows ; while our horses, scat¬ 
tered about, and grazing under them, gave to the whole 
the air of a noble park. It was difficult to realize the 
fact that we were so far in the wilds beyond the resi¬ 
dence of man. Our encampment alone had a savage 
appearance, with its rude tents of skins and blankets, 
and its columns of blue smoke rising among the trees. 

The first care in the morning was to look after our 
horses. Some of them had wandered to a distance, but 
all were fortunately found,—even the one whose clatter¬ 
ing hoofs had caused such uneasinsss in the night. He 
had come to a halt about a mile from the camp, and was 
found quietly grazing near a brook. The bugle sounded 
for departure about half-past eight. As we were in 
greater risk of Indian molestation the farther we ad¬ 
vanced, our line was formed with more precision than 
heretofore. Every one had his station assigned him, and 
was forbidden to leave it in pursuit of game without spe¬ 
cial permission. The pack-horses were placed in the 
centre of the line, and a strong guard in the rear. 


CHAPTER XYIH. 


A. GRAND PRAIRIE.—CLIFF CASTLE.—BUFFALO TRACKS.—DEER HUNTED Bt 
WOLVES.—CROSS TIMBER. 

FTER a toilsome march of some distance 
through a country cut up by ravines and 
brooks, and entangled by thickets, we emerged 
upon a grand prairie. Here one of the characteristic 
scenes of the Far West broke upon us. An immense 
extent of grassy, undulating, or, as it is termed, rolling 
country, with here and there a clump of trees dimly seen 
in the distance like a ship at sea ; the landscape deriving 
sublimity from its vastness and simplicity. To the south¬ 
west, on the summit of a hill, was a singular crest of 
broken rocks, resembling a ruined fortress. It reminded 
me of the ruin of some Moorish castle, crowning a height 
in the midst of a lonely Spanish landscape. To this hill 
we gave the name of Cliff Castle. 

The prairies of these great hunting regions differed in 
the character of their vegetation from those through 
which I had hitherto passed. Instead of a profusion of 
tall flowering plants and long flaunting grasses, they were 
covered with a shorter growth of herbage called buffalo- 







A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


123 


grass, somewhat coarse, but, at the proper seasons, af¬ 
fording excellent and abundant pasturage. At present it 
was growing wiry, and in many places was too much 
parched for grazing. 

The weather was verging into that serene but some¬ 
what arid season called the Indian Summer. There was 
a smoky haze in the atmosphere that tempered the 
brightness of the sunshine into a golden tint, softening 
the features of the landscape, and giving a vagueness to 
the outlines of distant objects. This haziness was daily 
increasing, and was attributed to the burning of distant 
prairies by the Indian hunting parties. 

We had not gone far upon the prairie before we came 
to where deeply worn footpaths were seen traversing the 
country; sometimes two or three would keep on parallel 
to each other, and but a few paces apart. These were 
pronounced to be traces of buffaloes, where large droves 
had passed. There were tracks also of horses, which 
were observed with some attention by our experienced 
hunters. They could not be the tracks of wild horses, as 
there were no prints of the hoofs of colts; all were full- 
grown. As the horses evidently were not shod, it was 
concluded they must belong to some hunting party of 
Pawnees. In the course of the morning, the tracks of a 
single horse, with shoes, were discovered. This might 
be the horse of a Cherokee hunter, or perhaps a horse 
stolen from the whites of the frontier. Thus, in tra¬ 
versing these perilous wastes, every footprint and dint of 


124 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


hoof becomes matter of cautious inspection and shrewd 
surmise; and the question continually is, whether it be 
the trace of friend or foe, whether of recent or ancient 
date, and whether the being that made it be out of reach, 
or liable to be encountered. 

We were getting more and more into the game coun¬ 
try: as we proceeded, we repeatedly saw deer to the 
right and left, bounding off for the coverts; but their 
appearance no longer excited the same eagerness to pur¬ 
sue. In passing along a slope of the prairie, between 
two rolling swells of land, we came in sight of a genuine 
natural hunting match. A pack of seven black wolves 
and one white one were in full chase of a buck, which 
they had nearly tired down. They crossed the line of 
our march without apparently perceiving us; we saw 
them have a fair run of nearly a mile, gaining upon the 
buck until they were leaping upon his haunches, when 
he plunged down a ravine. Some of our party galloped 
to a rising ground commanding a view of the ravine. 
The poor buck was completely beset, some on his flanks, 
some at his throat: he made two or three struggles and 
desperate bounds, but was dragged down, overpowered, 
and torn to pieces. The black wolves, in their ravenous 
hunger and fury, took no notice of the distant group of 
horsemen; but the white wolf, apparently less game, 
abandoned the prey, and scampered over hill and dale, 
rousing various deer that were crouched in the hollows, 
and which bounded off likewise in different directions. 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


125 


It was altogether a wild scene, worthy of the “hunting- 
grounds.” 

We now came once more in sight of the Red Fork, 
winding its turbid course between well-wooded hills, and 
through a vast and magnificent landscape. The prairies 
bordering on the rivers are always varied in this way 
with woodland, so beautifully interspersed as to appear 
to have been laid out by the hand of taste; and they 
only want here and there a village spire, the battlements 
of a castle, or the turrets of an old family mansion rising 
from among the trees, to rival the most ornamented 
scenery of Europe. 

About mid-day we reached the edge of that scattered 
belt of forest land, about forty miles in width, which 
stretches across the country from north to south, from 
the Arkansas to the Red River, separating the upper 
from the lower prairies, and commonly called the “ Cross 
Timber.” On the skirts of this forest land, just on the 
edge of a prairie, we found traces of a Pawnee encamp¬ 
ment of between one and two hundred lodges, showing 
that the party must have been numerous. The skull of 
a buffalo lay near the camp, and the moss which had 
gathered on it proved that the encampment was at least 
a year old. About half a mile off we encamped in a 
beautiful grove, watered by a fine spring and rivulet. 
Our day’s journey had been about fourteen miles. 

In the course of the afternoon we were rejoined by 
two of Lieutenant King’s party, which we had left be- 


126 


CRA TON MISCELLANY. 


hind a few days before, to look after stray horses. All 
the horses had been found, though some had wandered 
to the distance of several miles. The lieutenant, with 
seventeen of his companions, had remained at our last 
night’s encampment to hunt, having come upon recent 
traces of buffalo. They had also seen a fine wild horse, 
which, however, had galloped off with a speed that defied 
pursuit. 

Confident anticipations were now indulged that on 
the following day we should meet with buffalo, and 
perhaps with wild horses, and every one was in spirits. 
We needed some excitement of the kind, for our young 
men were growing weary of marching and encamping 
under restraint, and provisions this day were scanty. 
The Captain and several of the rangers went out hunting, 
but brought home nothing but a small deer and a few 
turkeys. Our two men, Beatte and Tonish, likewise 
went out. The former returned with a deer athwart his 
horse, which, as usual, he laid down by our lodge, and 
said nothing. Tonish returned with no game, but with 
his customary budget of wonderful tales. Both he and 
the deer had done wonders. Not one had come within 
the lure of his rifle without being hit in a mortal part, 
yet, strange to say, every one had kept on his way with¬ 
out flinching. We all determined that, from the accu¬ 
racy of his aim, Tonish must have shot with charmed 
balls, but that every deer had a charmed life. The most 
important intelligence brought by him, however, was, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


127 


that he had seen the fresh tracks of several wild horses. 
He now considered himself upon the eve of great ex¬ 
ploits, for there was nothing upon which he glorified 
himself more than his skill in horse-catching. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


HUNTERS’ ANTICIPATIONS.—THE RUGGED FORD.—A WILD HORSE. 

October 21. 

HIS morning the camp was in a bustle at an 
early hour: the expectation of falling in with 
buffalo in the course of the day roused every 
one’s spirit. There was a continual cracking of rifles, 
that they might be reloaded: the shot was drawn off 
from double-barrelled guns, and balls were substituted. 
Tonish, however, prepared chiefly for a campaign against 
wild horses. He took the field, with a coil of cordage 
hung at his saddle-bow, and a couple of white wands, 
something like fishing-rods, eight or ten feet in length, 
with forked ends. The coil of cordage thus used in 
hunting the wild horse is called a lariat, and answers to 
the lasso of South America. It is not flung, however, in 
the graceful and dexterous Spanish style. The hunter, 
after a hard chase, when he succeeds in getting almost 
head and head with the wild horse, hitches the running 
noose of the lariat over his head by means of the forked 
stick; then letting him have the full length of the cord, 
plays him like a fish, and chokes him into subjection. 

128 






A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


129 


All this Tonish promised to exemplify to our full satis¬ 
faction ; we had not much confidence in his success, and 
feared he might knock up a good horse in a headlong 
gallop after a bad one; for, like all the French creoles, 
he was a merciless hard rider. It was determined, there¬ 
fore, to keep a sharp eye upon him, and to check his 
sallying propensities. 

We had not proceeded far on our morning’s march, 
when we were checked by a deep stream, running along 
the bottom of a thickly wooded ravine. After coasting 
it for a couple of miles, we came to a fording-place ; but 
to get down to it was the difficulty, for the banks were 
steep and crumbling, and overgrown with forest-trees, 
mingled with thickets, brambles, and grape-vines. At 
length the leading horseman broke his way through the 
thicket, and his horse, putting his feet together, slid 
down the black crumbling bank, to the narrow margin of 
the stream; then floundering across, with mud and water 
up to the saddle-girths, he scrambled up the opposite 
bank, and arrived safe on level ground. The whole line 
followed pell-mell after the leader, and pushing forward 
in close order, Indian file, they crowded each other down 
the bank and into the stream. Some of the horsemen 
missed the ford, and were soused over head and ears ; 
one was unhorsed, and plumped head foremost into the 
middle of the stream: for my own part, while pressed 
forward, and hurried over the bank by those behind me, 
I was interrupted by a grape-vine, as thick as a cable, 
9 


130 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


which hung in a festoon as low as the saddle-bow, and, 
dragging me from the saddle, threw me among the feet 
of the trampling horses. Fortunately, I escaped with¬ 
out injury, regained my steed, crossed the stream with¬ 
out further difficulty, and was enabled to join in the 
merriment occasioned by the ludicrous disasters of the 
fording. 

It is at passes like this that occur the most dangerous 
ambuscades and sanguinary surprises of Indian warfare. 
A party of savages, well placed among the thickets, might 
have made sad havoc among our men, while entangled 
in the ravine. 

We now came out upon a vast and glorious prairie, 
spreading out beneath the golden beams of an autumnal 
sun. The deep and frequent traces of buffalo showed it 
to be one of their favorite grazing grounds; yet none 
were to be seen. In the course of the morning we were 
overtaken by the lieutenant and seventeen men, who had 
remained behind, and who came laden with the spoils 
of buffaloes; having killed three on the preceding day. 
One of the rangers, however, had little luck to boast of, 
his horse having taken fright at sight of the buffaloes, 
thrown his rider, and escaped into the woods. 

The excitement of our hunters, both young and old, 
now rose almost to fever-height, scarce any of them hav¬ 
ing ever encountered any of this far-famed game of the 
prairies. Accordingly, when in the course of the day 
the cry of buffalo! buffalo! rose from one part of the 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


131 


line, the whole troop were thrown in agitation. We 
were just then passing through a beautiful part of the 
prairie, finely diversified by hills and slopes, and woody 
dells, and high, stately groves. Those who had given 
the alarm pointed out a large black-looking animal, slowly 
moving along the side of a rising ground, about two 
miles off. The ever-ready Tonish jumped up, and stood 
with his feet on the saddle, and his forked sticks in his 
hands, like a posture-master or scaramouch at a circus, 
just ready for a feat of horsemanship. After gazing at 
the animal for a moment, which he could have seen full 
as well without rising from his stirrups, he pronounced 
it a wild horse; and dropping again into his saddle, was 
about to dash off full tilt in pursuit, when, to his inex¬ 
pressible chagrin, he was called back, and ordered to 
keep to his post, in rear of the baggage horses. 

The Captain and two of his officers now set off to 
reconnoitre the game. It was the intention of the Cap¬ 
tain, who was an admirable marksman, to endeavor to 
crease the horse, that is to say, to hit him with a rifle- 
ball in the ridge of the neck. A wound of this kind 
paralyzes a horse for a moment; he falls to the ground, 
and may be secured before he recovers. It is a cruel 
expedient, however, for an ill-directed shot may kill or 
maim the noble animal. 

As the Captain and his companions moved off laterally 
and slowly in the direction of the horse, we continued 
our course forward; watching intently, however, the 


132 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


movements of the game. The horse moved quietly ovei 
the profile of the rising ground, and disappeared behind 
it. The Captain and his party were likewise soon hid¬ 
den by an intervening hill. 

After a time, the horse suddenly made his appearance 
to our right, just ahead of the line, emerging out of a 
small valley, on a brisk trot; having evidently taken the 
alarm. At sight of us, he stopped short, gazed at us for 
an instant with surprise, then tossing up his head, trot¬ 
ted off in fine style, glancing at us first over one shoulder, 
then over the other, his ample mane and tail streaming 
in the wind. Having dashed through a skirt of thicket, 
that looked like a hedge-row, he paused in the open field 
beyond, glanced back at us again, with a beautiful bend 
of the neck, snuffed the air, and then tossing his head 
again, broke into a gallop, and took refuge in a wood. 

It was the first time I had ever seen a horse scouring 
his native wilderness in all the pride and freedom of his 
nature. How different from the poor, mutilated, har¬ 
nessed, checked, reined-up victim of luxury, caprice, and 
avarice, in our cities ! 

After travelling about fifteen miles, we encamped 
about one o’clock, that our hunters might have time to 
procure a supply of provisions. Our encampment was in 
a spacious grove of lofty oaks and walnuts, free from 
underwood, on the border of a brook. While unloading 
the pack-horses, our little Frenchman was loud in his 
complaints at having been prevented from pursuing the 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


133 


wild horse, which he would certainly have taken. In 
the meantime, I saw our half-breed, Beatte, quietly sad¬ 
dle his best horse, a powerful steed of a half-savage race, 
hang a lariat at the saddle-bow, take a rifle and forked 
stick in hand, and, mounting, depart from the camp 
without saying a word. It was evident he was going off 
in quest of the wild horse, but was disposed to hunt 


aione. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE CAMP OF THE WILD HORSft. 

HUNTERS’ STORIES.—HABITS OF THE WILD HORSE.—THE HALF-BREED AND 
HIS PRIZE.—A HORSE CHASE.—A WILD SPIRIT TAMED. 



E had encamped in a good neighborhood for 
game, as the reports of rifles in various direc¬ 
tions speedily gave notice. One of our hunters 
soon returned with the meat of a doe, tied up in the 
skin, and slung across his shoulders. Another brought a 
fat buck across his horse. Two other deer were brought 
in, and a number of turkeys. All the game was thrown 
down in front of the Captain’s fire, to be portioned out 
among the various messes. The spits and camp-kettles 
were soon in full employ, and throughout the evening 
there was a scene of hunters’ feasting and profusion. 

We had been disappointed this day in our hopes of 
meeting with buffalo, but the sight of the wild horse had 
been a great novelty, and gave a turn to the conversation 
of the camp for the evening. There were several anec¬ 
dotes told of a famous gray horse, which has ranged the 
prairies of this neighborhood for six or seven years, set- 

134 



A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


135 


ting at naught every attempt of the hunters to capture 
him. They say he can pace and rack (or amble) faster 
than the fleetest horses can run. Equally marvellous 
accounts were given of a black horse on the Brassos, 
who grazed the prairies on that river’s banks in the 
Texas. For years he outstripped all pursuit. His fame 
spread far and wide; offers were made for him to the 
amount of a thousand dollars; the boldest and most 
hard-riding hunters tried incessantly to make prize of 
him, but in vain. At length he fell a victim to his gal¬ 
lantry, being decoyed under a tree by a tame mare, and a 
noose dropped over his head by a boy perched among 
the branches. 

The capture of the wild horse is one of the most favor¬ 
ite achievements of the prairie tribes; and, indeed, it is 
from this source that the Indian hunters chiefly supply 
themselves. The wild horses which range those vast 
grassy plains, extending from the Arkansas to the Span¬ 
ish settlements, are of various forms and colors, be¬ 
traying their various descents. Some resemble the com¬ 
mon English stock, and are probably descended from 
horses which have escaped from our border settlements. 
Others are of a low but strong make, and are supposed 
to be of the Andalusian breed, brought out by the Span¬ 
ish discoverers. 

Some fanciful speculatists have seen in them descend¬ 
ants of the Arab stock, brought into Spain from Africa, 
and thence transferred to this country; and have pleased 


136 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


themselves with the idea that their sires may have been 
of the pure coursers of the desert, that once bore Ma¬ 
homet and his warlike disciples across the sandy plains 
of Arabia. 

The habits of the Arab seem to have come with the 
steed. The introduction of the horse on the boundless 
prairies of the Far West changed the whole mode of 
living of their inhabitants. It gave them that facility of 
rapid motion, and of sudden and distant change of place, 
so dear to the roving propensities of man. Instead of 
lurking in the depths of gloomy forests, and patiently 
threading the mazes of a tangled wilderness on foot, like 
his brethren of the north, the Indian of the West is a 
rover of the plain; he leads a brighter and more sun¬ 
shiny life; almost always on horseback, on vast flowerf^ 
prairies and under cloudless skies. 

I was lying by the Captain’s fire, late in the evening, 
listening to stories about those coursers of the prairies, 
and weaving speculations of my own, when there was a 
clamor of voices and a loud cheering at the other end of 
the camp; and word was passed that Beatte, the half- 
breed, had brought in a wild horse. 

In an instant every fire was deserted; the whole camp 
crowded to see the Indian and his prize. It was a colt 
about two years old, well grown, finely limbed, with 
bright prominent eyes, and a spirited yet gentle de¬ 
meanor. He gazed about him with an air of mingled stu¬ 
pefaction and surprise, at the men, the horses, and the 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


137 


camp-fires; while the Indian stood before him with 
folded arms, having hold of the other end of the cord 
which noosed his captive, and gazing on him with a 
most imperturbable aspect. Beatte, as I have before ob¬ 
served, has a greenish olive complexion, with a strongly 
marked countenance, not unlike the bronze casts of Na¬ 
poleon ; and as he stood before his captive horse, with 
folded arms and fixed aspect, he looked more like a 
statue than a man. 

If the horse, however, manifested the least restiveness, 
Beatte would immediately worry him with the lariat, 
jerking him first on one side, then on the other, so as 
almost to throw him on the ground; when he had thus 
rendered him passive, he would resume his statue-like 
Itttitude, and gaze at him in silence. 

The whole scene was singularly wild: the tall grove, 
partially illumined by the flashing fires of the camp, the 
horses tethered here and there among the trees, the car¬ 
casses of deer hanging around, and, in the midst of all, 
the wild huntsman and his wild horse, with an admiring 
throng of rangers almost as wild. 

In the eagerness of their excitement, several of the 
young rangers sought to get the horse by purchase or 
barter, and even offered extravagant terms; but Beatte 
declined all their offers. “ You give great price now,” 
said he; “ to-morrow you be sorry, and take back, and 
say d—d Indian! ” 

The young men importuned him with questions about 


138 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


the mode in which he took the horse, but his answers 
were dry and laconic; he evidently retained some pique 
at having been undervalued and sneered at by them; and 
at the same time looked down upon them with contempt 
as greenhorns little versed in the noble science of wood¬ 
craft. 

Afterwards, however, when he was seated by our fire, 7 
readily drew from him an account of his exploit; for, 
though taciturn among strangers, and little prone to 
boast of his actions, yet his taciturnity, like that of all 
Indians, had its times of relaxation. 

He informed me, that on leaving the camp he had 
returned to the place where we had lost sight of the wild 
horse. Soon getting upon its track, he followed it to the 
banks of the river. Here, the prints being more distinct 
in the sand, he perceived that one of the hoofs was 
broken and defective, so he gave up the pursuit. 

As he was returning to the camp, he came upon a gang 
of six horses, which immediately made for the river. 
He pursued them across the stream, left his rifle on the 
river-bank, and putting his horse to full speed, soon 
came up with the fugitives. He attempted to noose one 
of them, but the lariat hitched on one of his ears, and he 
shook it off. The horses dashed up a hill, he followed 
hard at their heels, when, of a sudden, he saw their tails 
whisking in the air, and they plunging down a precipice. 
It was too late to stop. He shut his eyes, held in his 
breath, &nd went over with them—neck or nothing. The 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


139 


descent was between twenty and thirty feet, but they all 
came down safe upon a sandy bottom. 

He now succeeded in throwing his noose around a fine 
young horse. As he galloped alongside of him, the two 
horses passed each side of a sapling, and the end of the 
lariat was jerked out of his hand. He regained it, but an 
intervening tree obliged him again to let it go. Having 
once more caught it, and coming to a more open country, 
he was enabled to play the young horse with the line 
until he gradually checked and subdued him, so as to 
lead him to the place where he had left his rifle. 

He had another formidable difficulty in getting him 
across the river, where both horses stuck for a time in 
the mire, and Beatte was nearly unseated from his 
saddle by the force of the current and the struggles of 
his captive. After much toil and trouble, however, he 
got across the stream, and brought his prize safe into 
camp. 

For the remainder of the evening the camp remained 
in a high state of excitement; nothing was talked of but 
the capture of wild horses; every youngster of the troop 
was for this harum-scarum kind of chase; every one 
promised himself to return from the campaign in tri¬ 
umph, bestriding one of these wild coursers of the prai¬ 
ries. Beatte had suddenly risen to great importance; 
he was the prime hunter, the hero of the day. Offers 
were made him by the best-mounted rangers, to let him 
ride their horses in the chase, provided he would give 


140 


CBAYON MISCELLANY. 


them a share of the spoil. Beatte bore his honors in 
silence, and closed with none of the offers. Our stam¬ 
mering, chattering, gasconading little Frenchman, how¬ 
ever, made up for his taciturnity by vaunting as much 
upon the subject as if it were he that had caught the 
horse. Indeed he held forth so learnedly in the matter, 
and boasted so much of the many horses he had taken, 
that he began to be considered an oracle; and some of 
the youngsters were inclined to doubt whether he were 
not superior even to the taciturn Beatte. 

The excitement kept the camp awake later than usual. 
The hum of voices, interrupted by occasional peals of 
laughter, was heard from the groups around the various 
fires, and the night was considerably advanced before all 
had sunk to sleep. 

With the morning dawn the excitement revived, and 
Beatte and his wild horse were again the gaze and talk 
of the camp. The captive had been tied all night to a 
tree among the other horses. He was again led forth 
by Beatte, by a long halter or lariat, and, on his mani¬ 
festing the least restiveness, was, as before, jerked and 
worried into passive submission. He appeared to be 
gentle and docile by nature, and had a beautifully mild 
expression of the eye. In his strange and forlorn situa¬ 
tion, the poor animal seemed to seek protection and 
companionship in the very horse which had aided to 
capture him. 

Seeing him thus gentle and tractable, Beatte, just as 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


141 


we were about to march, strapped a light pack upon his 
back, by way of giving him the first lesson in servitude. 
The native pride and independence of the animal took 
fire at this indignity. He reared, and plunged, and 
kicked, and tried in every way to get rid of the degrad¬ 
ing burden. The Indian was too potent for him. At 
every paroxysm he renewed the discipline of the halter, 
until the poor animal, driven to despair, threw himself 
prostrate on the ground, and lay motionless, as if ac¬ 
knowledging himself vanquished. A stage hero, repre¬ 
senting the despair of a captive prince, could not have 
played his part more dramatically. There was abso¬ 
lutely a moral grandeur in it. 

The imperturbable Beatte folded his arms, and stood 
for a time, looking down in silence upon his captive; 
until seeing him perfectly subdued, he nodded his head 
slowly, screwed his mouth into a sardonic smile of tri¬ 
umph, and, with a jerk of the halter, ordered him to rise. 
He obeyed, and from that time forward offered no resist¬ 
ance. During that day he bore his pack patiently, and 
was led by the halter; but in two days he followed vol¬ 
untarily at large among the supernumerary horses of the 
troop. 

I could not but look with compassion upon this fine 
young animal, whose whole course of existence had been 
so suddenly reversed. From being a denizen of these 
vast pastures, ranging at will from plain to plain and 
mead to mead, cropping of every herb and flower, and 


142 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


drinking of every stream, he was suddenly reduced to 
perpetual and painful servitude, to pass his life under 
the harness and the curb, amid, perhaps, the din and 
dust and drudgery of cities. The transition in his lot 
was such as sometimes takes place in human affairs, and 
in the fortunes of towering individuals :—one day, a 
prince of the prairies—the next day, a pack-horse ! 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE FORDING OF THE RED FORK.—THE DREARY FORESTS OF THE “ CROSS 
TIMBER.”—BUFFALO ! 

E left the camp of the wild horse about a quar¬ 
ter before eight, and, after steering nearly 
south for three or four miles, arrived on the 
banks of the Bed Fork, about seventy-five miles, as we 
supposed, above its mouth. The river was about three 
hundred yards wide, wandering among sand-bars and 
shoals. Its shores, and the long sandy banks that 
stretched out into the stream, were printed, as usual, 
with the traces of various animals that had come down to 
cross it, or to drink its waters. 

Here we came to a halt, and there was much consulta¬ 
tion about the possibility of fording the river with safety, 
as there was an apprehension of quicksands. Beatte, 
who had been somewhat in the rear, came up while we 
were debating. He was mounted on his horse of the 
half-wild breed, and leading his captive by the bridle. 
He gave the latter in charge to Tonish, and without say¬ 
ing a word, urged his horse into the stream, and crossed 
it in safety. Everything was done by this man in a simi- 

143 




144 


CRA YON MISCELLANY. 


lar way, promptly, resolutely, and silently, without a pre¬ 
vious promise or an after vaunt. 

The troop now followed the lead of Beatte, and reach¬ 
ed the opposite shore without any mishap, though one of 
the pack-horses, wandering a little from the track, came 
near being swallowed up in a quicksand, and was with 
difficulty dragged to land. 

After crossing the river, we had to force our way for 
nearly a mile through a thick canebrake, which, at first 
sight, appeared an impervious mass of reeds and bram¬ 
bles. It was a hard struggle; our horses were often to 
the saddle-girths in mire and water, and both horse 
and horseman harassed and torn by bush and brier. 
Falling, however, upon a buffalo-track, we at length 
extricated ourselves from this morass, and ascended a 
ridge of land, where we beheld a beautiful open country 
before us; while to our right the belt of forest land, 
called “ The Cross Timber,” continued stretching away 
to the southward, as far as the eye could reach. We 
soon abandoned the open country, and struck into the 
forest land. It was the intention of the Captain to keep 
on southwest by south, and traverse the Cross Timber 
diagonally, so as to come out upon the edge of the great 
western prairie. By thus maintaining something of a 
southerly direction, he trusted, while he crossed the belt 
of the forest, he would at the same time approach the 
Bed Biver. 

The plan of the Captain was judicious; but he erred 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


145 


from not being informed of the nature of the country. 
Had he kept directly west, a couple of days would have 
carried us through the forest land, and we might then 
have had an easy course along the skirts of the upper 
prairies, to Red River; by going diagonally, we were 
kept for many weary days toiling through a dismal 
series of rugged forests. 

The Cross Timber is about forty miles in breadth, 
and stretches over a rough country of rolling hills, cov- 
ered with scattered tracts of post-oak and black-jack; 
with some intervening valleys, which at proper seasons 
would afford good pasturage. It is very much cut up 
by deep ravines, which in the rainy seasons are the beds 
of temporary streams, tributary to the main rivers, and 
these are called “ branches.” The whole tract may pre¬ 
sent a pleasant aspect in the fresh time of the year, when 
the ground is covered with herbage; when the trees are 
in their green leaf, and the glens are enlivened by run¬ 
ning streams. Unfortunately, we entered it too late in 
the season. The herbage was parched; the foliage of 
the scrubby forests was withered; the whole woodland 
prospect, as far as the eye could reach, had a brown 
and arid hue. The fires made on the prairies by the 
Indian hunters, had frequently penetrated these forests, 
sweeping in light, transient flames along the dry grass, 
scorching and calcining the lower twigs and branches 
of the trees, and leaving them black and hard, so as to 
tear the flesh of man and horse that had to scramble 
10 


146 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


through them. I shall not easily forget the mortal toil, 
and the vexations of flesh and spirit, that we underwent 
occasionally, in our wanderings through the Cross Tim¬ 
ber. It was like struggling through forests of cast iron. 

After a tedious ride of several miles, we came out upon 
an open tract of hill and dale, interspersed with wood¬ 
land. Here we were roused by the cry of buffalo! buf¬ 
falo ! The effect was something like that of the cry of a 
sail! a sail! at sea. It was not a false alarm. Three or 
four of those enormous animals were visible to our sight, 
grazing on the slope of a distant hill. 

There was a general movement to set off in pursuit, 
and it was with some difficulty that the vivacity of the 
younger men of the troop could be restrained. Leaving 
orders that the line of march should be preserved, the 
Captain and two of his officers departed at a quiet pace, 
accompanied by Beatte and by the ever-forward Tonish; 
for it was impossible any longer to keep the little 
Frenchman in check, being half crazy to prove his skill 
and prowess in hunting the buffalo. 

The intervening hills soon hid from us both the game 
and the huntsmen. We kept on our course in quest of a 
camping-place, which was difficult to be found; almost 
all the channels of the streams being dry, and the coun¬ 
try being destitute of fountain-heads. 

After proceeding some distance, there was again a cry 
of buffalo, and two were pointed out on a hill to the left. 
The Captain being absent, it was no longer possible to 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


147 


restrain the ardor of the young hunters. Away several 
of them dashed, full speed, and soon disappeared among 
the ravines; the rest kept on, anxious to find a proper 
place for encampment. 

Indeed we now began to experience the disadvantages 
of the season. The pasturage of the prairies was scanty 
and parched, the pea-vines which grew in the woody 
bottoms were withered, and most of the “ branches ” or 
streams were dried up. "While wandering in this per¬ 
plexity, we were overtaken by the Captain and all his 
party, except Tonish. They had pursued the buffalo for 
some distance without getting within shot, and had given 
up the chase, being fearful of fatiguing their horses, or 
being led off too far from camp. The little Frenchman, 
however, had galloped after them at headlong speed, and 
the last they saw of him, he was engaged, as it were, 
yard-arm and yard-arm, with a great buffalo bull, firing 
broadsides into him. “I tink dat little man crazy—some¬ 
how,” observed Beatte, dryly. 


CHAPTER XXU 


THE ALARM CAMP. 

'E now came to a halt, and had to content our¬ 
selves with an indifferent encampment. It was 
in a grove of scrub-oaks, on the borders of a 
deep ravine, at the bottom of which were a few scanty 
pools of water. We were just at the foot of a gradually 
sloping hill, covered with half-withered grass, that af¬ 
forded meagre pasturage. In the spot where we had 
encamped, the grass was high and parched. The view 
around us was circumscribed and much shut in by gently 
swelling hills. 

Just as we were encamping, Tonish arrived, all glori¬ 
ous, from his hunting-match ; his white horse hung all 
round with buffalo meat. According to his own account, 
he had laid low two mighty bulls. As usual, we de¬ 
ducted one half from his boastings ; but, now that he 
had something real to vaunt about, there was no restrain¬ 
ing the valor of his tongue. 

After having in some measure appeased his vanity by 
boasting of his exploit, he informed us that he had ob¬ 
served the fresh track of horses, which, from various cir- 

148 





A 10 UR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


149 


cumstances, he suspected to have been made by some 
roving band of Pawnees. This caused some little un¬ 
easiness. The young men who had left the line of march 
in pursuit of the two buffaloes, had not yet rejoined us; 
apprehensions were expressed that th^y might be way¬ 
laid and attacked. Our veteran hunter, old Eyan, also, 
immediately on our halting to encamp, had gone off on 
foot, in company with a young disciple. “ Dat old man 
will have his brains knocked out by de Pawnees yet,” 
said Beatte. “ He tink he know everyting, but he don’t 
know Pawnees, anyhow.” 

Taking his rifle, the Captain repaired on foot to recon¬ 
noitre the country from the naked summit of one of the 
neighboring hills. In the meantime the horses were 
hobbled and turned loose to graze; and wood was cut, 
and fires made to prepare the evening’s repast. 

Suddenly there was an alarm of fire in the camp! The 
flame from one of the kindling fires had caught to the 
tall dry grass: a breeze was blowing; there was danger 
that the camp would soon be wrapped in a light blaze. 
“ Look to the horses ! ” cried one; “ drag away the bag¬ 
gage ! ” cried another. “ Take care of the rifles and pow¬ 
der-horns ! ” cried a third. All was hurry-scurry and 
uproar. The horses dashed wildly about: some of the 
men snatched away rifles and powder-horns, others 
dragged off saddles and saddle-bags. Meantime, no one 
thought of quelling the fire, nor indeed knew how to 
quell it. Beatte, however, and his comrades attacked it 


150 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


in the Indian mode, beating down the edges of the fire 
with blankets and horse-cloths, and endeavoring to pre¬ 
vent its spreading among the grass; the rangers followed 
their example, and in a little while the flames were 
happily quelled. 

The fires were now properly kindled on places from 
which the dry grass had been cleared away. The horses 
were scattered about a small valley, and on the sloping 
hill-side, cropping the scanty herbage. Tonish was pre¬ 
paring a sumptuous evening’s meal from his buffalo 
meat, promising us a rich soup and a prime piece of 
roast beef; but we were doomed to experience another 
and more serious alarm. 

There was an indistinct cry from some rangers on the 
summit of the hill, of which we could only distinguish 
the words, “The horses! the horses! get in the horses! ” 

Immediately a clamor of voices arose; shouts, ques¬ 
tions, replies, were all mingled together, so that nothing 
could be clearly understood, and every one drew his own 
inference. 

“ The Captain has started buffaloes,” cried one, “ and 
wants horses for the chase.” Immediately a number of 
rangers seized their rifles, and scampered for the hill¬ 
top. “ The prairie is on fire beyond the hill,” cried 
another ; “ I see the smoke—the Captain means we shall 
drive the horses beyond the brook.” 

By this time a ranger from the hill had reached the 
skirts of the camp. He was almost breathless, and could 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


151 


only say that the Captain had seen Indians at a dis¬ 
tance. 

“ Pawnees ! Pawnees! ” was now the cry among onr 
wild-headed youngsters. “ Drive the horses into the 
camp ! ” cried one. “ Saddle the horses! ” cried another. 
“ Form the line ! ” cried a third. There was now a scene 
of clamor and confusion that baffles all description. The 
rangers were scampering about the adjacent field in pur¬ 
suit of their horses. One might be seen tugging his 
steed along by a halter; another without a hat, riding 
bare-backed; another driving a hobbled horse before 
him, that made awkward leaps like a kangaroo. 

The alarm increased. Word was brought from the 
lower end of the camp that there was a band of Pawnees 
in a neighboring valley. They had shot old Eyan 
through the head, and were chasing his companion. 
“ No, it was not old Eyan that was killed—it was one of 
the hunters that had been after the two buffaloes.” 
“There are three hundred Pawnees just beyond the 
hill,” cried one voice. “More, more ! ” cried another. 

Our situation, shut in among hills, prevented our see¬ 
ing to any distance, and left us a prey to all these 
rumors. A cruel enemy was supposed to be at hand, 
and an immediate attack apprehended. The horses by 
this time were driven into the camp, and were dashing 
about among the fires, and trampling upon the baggage. 
Every one endeavored to prepare for action; but here 
was the perplexity. During the late alarm of fire, the 


152 


GRA TON MISCELLANY. 


saddles, bridles, rifles, powder-horns, and other equip¬ 
ments, had been snatched out of their places, and thrown 
helter-skelter among the trees. 

“ Where is my saddle ? ” cried one. “ Has any one 
seen my rifle ? ” cried another. “ Who will lend me a 
ball?” cried a third, who was loading his piece. “I 
have lost my bullet-pouch.” “ For God’s sake, help me 
to girth this horse ! ” cried another ; “ he’s so restive I 
can do nothing with him.” In his hurry and worry, he 
had put on the saddle the hind part before! 

Some affected to swagger and talk bold; others said 
nothing, but went on steadily, preparing their horses 
and weapons, and on these I felt the most reliance. 
Some were evidently excited and elated with the idea of 
an encounter with Indians; and none more so than my 
young Swiss fellow-traveller, who had a passion for wild 
adventure. Our man, Beatte, led his horses in the rear 
of the camp, placed his rifle against a tree, then seated 
himself by the fire in perfect silence. On the other hand, 
little Tonish, who was busy cooking, stopped every 
moment from his work to play the fanfaron, singing, 
swearing, and affecting an unusual hilarity, which made 
me strongly suspect that there was some little fright at 
bottom, to cause all this effervescence. 

About a dozen of the rangers, as soon as they could 
saddle their horses, dashed off in the direction in which 
the Pawnees were said to have attacked the hunters. It 
was now determined, in case our camp should be as- 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


153 


sailed, to put our horses in the ravine in rear, where 
they would be out of danger from arrow or rifle-ball, and 
to take our stand within the edge of the ravine. This 
would serve as a trench, and the trees and thickets with 
which it was bordered would be sufficient to turn aside 
any shaft of the enemy. The Pawnees, beside, are wary 
of attacking any covert of the kind; their warfare, as I 
have already observed, lies in the open prairie, where, 
mounted upon their fleet horses, they can swoop like 
hawks upon their enemy, or wheel about him and dis¬ 
charge their arrows. Still I could not but perceive, that, 
in case of being attacked by such a number of these well- 
mounted and warlike savages as were said to be at hand, 
we should be exposed to considerable risk from the in¬ 
experience and want of discipline of our newly-raised 
rangers, and from the very courage of many of the 
younger ones who seemed bent on adventure and exploit. 

By this time the Captain reached the camp, and every 
one crowded round him for information. He informed 
us that he had proceeded some distance on his recon¬ 
noitring expedition, and was slowly returning towards 
the camp, along the brow of a naked hill, when he saw 
something on the edge of a parallel hill, that looked like 
a man. He paused, and watched it; but it remained so 
perfectly motionless, that he supposed it a bush, or the 
top of some tree beyond the hill. He resumed his 
course, when it likewise began to move in a parallel di¬ 
rection. Another form now rose beside it, of some one 


154 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


who had either been lying down, or had just ascended 
the other side of the hill. The Captain stopped and re¬ 
garded them; they likewise stopped. He then lay down 
upon the grass, and they began to walk. On his rising, 
they again stopped, as if watching him. Knowing that 
the Indians are apt to have their spies and sentinels thug 
posted on the summit of naked hills, commanding ex^ 
tensive prospects, his doubts were increased by the sus¬ 
picious movements of these men. He now put his forag¬ 
ing-cap on the end of his rifle, and waved it in the air. 
They took no notice of the signal. He then walked on, 
until he entered the edge of a wood, which concealed him 
from their view. Stopping out of sight for a moment, he 
again looked forth, when he saw the two men passing 
swiftly forward. As the hill on which they were walk¬ 
ing made a curve toward that on which he stood, it 
seemed as if they were endeavoring to head him before 
he should reach the camp. Doubting whether they 
might not belong to some large party of Indians, either 
in ambush or moving along the valley beyond the hill, 
the Captain hastened his steps homeward, and, descrying 
some rangers on an eminence between him and the camp, 
he called out to them to pass the word to have the 
horses driven in, as these are generally the first objects 
of Indian depredation. 

Such was the origin of the alarm which had thrown 
the camp in commotion Some of those who heard 
the Captain’s narration, had no doubt that the men on 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


155 


the hill were Pawnee scouts, belonging to the band that 
had waylaid the hunters. Distant shots were heard at 
intervals, which were supposed to be fired by those who 
had sallied out to rescue their comrades. Several more 
rangers, having completed their equipments, now rode 
forth in the direction of the firing ; others looked anx¬ 
ious and uneasy. 

“ If they are as numerous as they are said to be,” said 
one, “ and as well mounted as they generally are, we 
shall be a bad match for them with our jaded horses.” 

“ Well,” replied the Captain, “ we have a strong en¬ 
campment, and can stand a siege.” 

“ Aye, but they may set fire to the prairie in the night, 
and burn us out of our encampment.” 

“ We will then set up a counter-fire ! ” 

The word was now passed that a man on horseback 
approached the camp. 

“ It is one of the hunters ! It is Clements! He brings 
buffalo meat! ” was announced by several voices as the 
horseman drew near. 

It was, in fact, one of the rangers who had set off in 
the morning in pursuit of the two buffaloes. He rode 
into the camp, with the spoils of the chase hanging 
round his horse, and followed by his companions, all 
sound and unharmed, and equally well laden. They 
proceeded to give an account of a grand gallop they had 
had after the two buffaloes, and how many shots it had 
cost them to bring one to the ground. 


156 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


“Well, but the Pawnees — the Pawnees — where are 
the Pawnees ? ” 

“ What Pawnees ? ” 

“ The Pawnees that attacked you.” 

“ No one attacked us.” 

“ But have you seen no Indians on your way ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; two of us got to the top of a hill to look 
out for the camp, and saw a fellow on an opposite hill 
cutting queer antics, who seemed to be an Indian.” 

“ Pshaw! that was I! ” said the Captain. 

Here the bubble burst. The whole alarm had risen 
from this mutual mistake of the Captain and the two 
rangers. As to the report of the three hundred Pawnees 
and their attack on the hunters, it proved to be a wan¬ 
ton fabrication, of which no further notice was taken; 
though the author deserved to have been sought out, 
and severely punished. 

There being no longer any prospect of fighting, every 
one now thought of eating; and here the stomachs 
throughout the camp were in unison. Tonish served up 
to us his promised regale of buffalo soup and buffalo 
beef. The soup was peppered most horribly, and the 
roast beef proved the bull to have been one of the pa¬ 
triarchs of the prairies; never did I have to deal with a 
tougher morsel. However, it was our first repast on 
buffalo meat: so we ate it with a lively faith; nor would 
our little Frenchman allow us any rest until he had ex¬ 
torted from us an acknowledgment of the excellence of 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


157 


his cookery; though the pepper gave us the lie in our 
throats. 

The night closed in without the return of old Ryan 
and his companion. We had become accustomed, how¬ 
ever, to the aberrations of this old cock of the woods, 
and no further solicitude was expressed on his account. 

After the fatigues and agitations of the day, the camp 
soon sunk into a profound sleep, excepting those on 
guard, who were more than usually on the alert; for the 
traces recently seen of Pawnees, and the certainty that 
we were in the midst of their hunting-grounds, excited 
to constant vigilance. About half-past ten o’clock we 
were all startled from sleep by a new alarm. A sentinel 
had fired off his rifle and run into camp, crying that 
there were Indians at hand. 

Every one was on his legs in an instant. Some seized 
their rifles; some were about to saddle their horses; 
some hastened to the Captain’s lodge, but were ordered 
back to their respective fires. The sentinel was exam¬ 
ined. He declared he had seen an Indian approach, 
crawling along the ground, whereupon he had fired upon 
him, and run into camp. The Captain gave it as his 
opinion that the supposed Indian was a wolf; he repri¬ 
manded the sentinel for deserting his post, and obliged 
him to return to it. Many seemed inclined to give credit 
to the story of the sentinel; for the events of the day 
had predisposed them to apprehend lurking foes and 
sudden assaults during the darkness of the night. For 


158 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


a long time they sat round their fires, with rifle in hand, 
carrying on low, murmuring conversations, and listening 
for some new alarm. Nothing further, however, oc¬ 
curred; the voices gradually died away; the gossipers 
nodded and dozed, and sunk to rest; and, by degrees, 
silence and sleep once more stole over the camp. 


CHAPTER XXin. 


JIAVER DAM.—BUFFALO AND HORSE TRACKS.—A PAWNEE TRAIL.—WILE 
HORSES.—THE YOUNG HUNTER AND THE BEAR.—CHANGE OF ROUTE. 


N mustering our forces in the morning, (Oct. 
23,) old Ryan and his comrade were still miss¬ 
ing ; but the Captain had such perfect reliance 
on the skill and resources of the veteran woodsman, that 
he did not think it necessary to take any measures with 
respect to him. 

Our march this day lay through the same kind of 
rough rolling country; checkered by brown dreary for¬ 
ests of post* oak, and cut up by deep dry ravines. The 
distant fires were evidently increasing on the prairies. 
The wind had been at northwest for several days; and 
the atmosphere had become so smoky, as in the height 
of Indian summer, that it was difficult to distinguish 
objects at any distance. 

In the course of the morning we crossed a deep 
stream with a complete beaver dam, above three feet 
high, making a large pond, and doubtless containing 
several families of that industrious animal, though not 
one showed his nose above water. The Captain would 

159 







160 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


not permit this amphibious commonwealth to be dis¬ 
turbed. 

We were now continually coming upon the tracks of 
buffaloes and wild horses; those of the former tended 
invariably to the south, as we could perceive by the di¬ 
rection of the trampled grass. It was evident we were 
on the great highway of these migratory herds, but that 
they had chiefly passed to the southward. 

Beatte, who generally kept a parallel course severa] 
hundred yards distant from our line of march, to be on 
the look-out for game, and who regarded every track 
with the knowing eye of an Indian, reported that he had 
come upon a very suspicious trail. There were the 
tracks of men who wore Pawnee moccasins. He had 
scented the smoke of mingled sumach and tobacco, such 
as the Indians use. He had observed tracks of horses, 
mingled with those of a dog; and a mark in the dust 
where a cord had been trailed along; probably the long 
bridle, one end of which the Indian horsemen suffer to 
trail on the ground. It was evident, they were not the 
tracks of wild horses. My anxiety began to revive about 
the safety of our veteran hunter Byan, for I had taken a 
great fancy to this real old Leatherstocking; every one 
expressed a confidence, however, that, wherever Byan 
was, he was safe, and knew how to take care of himself. 

We had accomplished the greater part of a weary 
day’s march, and were passing through a glade of the 
oak openings, when we came in sight of six wild horses, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


161 


among which I especially noticed two very handsome 
ones, a gray and a roan. They pranced about, with heads 
erect, and long flaunting tails, offering a proud contrast 
to our poor, spiritless, travel-tired steeds. Having rec¬ 
onnoitred us for a moment, they set off at a gallop, 
passed through a woody dingle, and in a little while 
emerged once more to view, trotting up a slope about a 
mile distant. 

The sight of these horses was again a sore trial to the 
vaporing Tonish, who had his lariat and forked stick 
ready, and was on the point of launching forth in pur¬ 
suit, on his jaded horse, when he was again ordered back 
to the pack-horses. 

After a day’s journey of fourteen miles in a southwest 
direction, we encamped on the banks of a small clear 
stream, on the northern border of the Cross Timbers, 
and on the edge of those vast prairies that extend away 
to the foot of the Eocky Mountains. In turning loose 
the horses to graze, their bells were stuffed with grass 
to prevent their tinkling, lest it might be heard by some 
wandering horde of Pawnees. 

Our hunters now went out in different directions, but 
without much success, as but one deer was brought into 
the camp. A young ranger had a long story to tell of 
his adventures. In skirting the thickets of a deep ravine 
he had wounded a buck, which he plainly heard to fall 
among the bushes. He stopped to fix the lock of his 
rifle, which was out of order, and to reload it \ then 
11 


162 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


advancing to the edge of the thicket, in quest of his 
game, he heard a low growling. Putting the branches 
aside, and stealing silently forward, he looked down into 
the ravine and beheld a huge bear dragging the carcass 
of the deer along the dry channel of a brook, and growl¬ 
ing and snarling at four or five officious wolves, who 
seemed to have dropped in to take supper with him. 

The ranger fired at the bear, but missed him. Bruin 
maintained his ground and his prize, and seemed dis¬ 
posed to make battle. The wolves, too, who were evi¬ 
dently sharp set, drew off to but a small distance. As 
night was coming on, the young hunter felt dismayed at 
the wildness and darkness of the place, and the strange 
company he had fallen in with; so he quietly withdrew, 
and returned empty-handed to the camp, where, having 
told his story, he was heartily bantered by his more ex¬ 
perienced comrades. 

In the course of the evening old Ryan came straggling 
into the camp, followed by his disciple, and as usual was 
received with hearty gratulations. He had lost himself 
yesterday, when hunting, and camped out all night, but 
had found our trail in the morning, and followed it up. 
He had passed some time at the beaver dam, admiring 
the skill and solidity with which it had been constructed. 
‘ These beavers,” said he, “are industrious little fellows. 
They are the knowingest varment as I know; and I’ll 
warrant the pond was stocked with them.” 

“ Aye,” said the Captain, “ I have no doubt most of the 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


163 


small rivers we have passed are full of beaver. I would 
like to come and trap on these waters all winter.” 

“ But would you not run the chance of being attacked 
by Indians? ” asked one of the company. 

“ Oh, as to that, it would be safe enough here, in the 
winter-time. There would be no Indians here until 
spring. I should want no more than two companions. 
Three persons are safer than a large number for trapping 
beaver. They can keep quiet, and need seldom fire a 
gun. A bear would serve them for food for two months, 
taking care to turn every part of it to advantage.” 

A consultation was now held as to our future progress. 
We had thus far pursued a western course, and, having 
traversed the Cross Timber, were on the skirts of the 
Great Western Prairie. We were still, however, in a 
very rough country, where food was scarce. The season 
was so far advanced that the grass was withered, and the 
prairies yielded no pasturage. The pea-vines of the bot¬ 
toms, also, which had sustained our horses for some part 
of the journey, were nearly gone, and for several days 
past the poor animals had fallen off wofully both in 
flesh and spirit. The Indian fires on the prairies were 
approaching us from north and south and west; they 
might spread also from the east, and leave a scorched 
desert between us and the frontier, in which our horses 
might be famished. 

It was determined, therefore, to advance no further to 
the westward, but to shape our course more to the east, 


164 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


so as to strike the north fork of the Canadian as soon as 
possible, where we hoped to find abundance of young 
cane; which, at this season of the year, affords the most 
nutritious pasturage for the horses, and at the same time 
attracts immense quantities of game. Here then we 
fixed the limits of our tour to the Far West, being within 
little more than a day’s march of the boundary line of 
Texas. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


SCARCITY OP BREAD.—RENCONTRE WITH BUFFALOES.—WILD TURKEYS.—FAH 
OF A BUFFALO BULL. 


HE morning broke bright and clear, but the 
camp had nothing of its usual gayety. The 
concert of the farm-yard was at an end; not a 
cock crew, nor dog barked; nor was there either singing 
or laughing; every one pursued his avocations quietly 
and gravely. The novelty of the expedition was wearing 
off. Some of the young men were getting as wayworn as 
their horses; and most of them, unaccustomed to the 
hunter’s life, began to repine at its privations. What 
they most felt was the want of bread, their rations of 
flour having been exhausted for several days. The old 
hunters, who had often experienced this want, made light 
of it; and Beatte, accustomed when among the Indians 
to live for months without it, considered it a mere article 
of luxury. “ Bread,” he would say scornfully, “is only fit 
for a child.” 

About a quarter before eight o’clock we turned our 
backs upon the Far West, and set off in a southeast 

course, along a gentle valley. After riding a few miles, 

165 







166 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Beatte, who kept parallel with us, along the ridge of a 
naked hill to our right, called out and made signals, as 
if something were coming round the hill to intercept us. 
Some, who were near me, cried out that it was a party of 
Pawnees. A skirt of thickets hid the approach of the 
supposed enemy from our view. We heard a trampling 
among the brushwood. My horse looked toward the 
place, snorted and pricked up his ears, when presently a 
couple of large huge buffalo bulls, who had been alarmed 
by Beatte, came crashing through the brake, and making 
directly towards us. At sight of us they wheeled round, 
and scuttled along a narrow defile of the hill. In an in¬ 
stant half a score of rifles cracked off; there was a uni¬ 
versal whoop and halloo, and away went half the troop, 
helter-skelter in pursuit, and myself among the num¬ 
ber. The most of us soon pulled up, and gave over a 
chase which led through birch and brier, and break¬ 
neck ravines. Some few of the rangers persisted for a 
time; but eventually joined the line, slowly lagging 
one after another. One of them returned on foot; he 
had been thrown while in full chase ; his rifle had been 
broken in the fall, and his horse, retaining the spirit 
of the rider, had kept on after the buffalo. It was 
a melancholy predicament to be reduced to, without 
horse or weapon in the midst of the Pawnee hunting- 
grounds. 

For my own part, I had been fortunate enough re¬ 
cently, by a further exchange, to get possession of the 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


167 

best horse in the troop; a full-blooded sorrel of excellent 
bottom, beautiful form, and most generous qualities. 

In such a situation, it almost seems as if a man 
changes his nature with his horse. I felt quite like 
another being, now that I had an animal under me, 
spirited yet gentle, docile to a remarkable degree, and 
easy, elastic, and rapid in all his movements. In a few 
days he became almost as much attached to me as a dog; 
would follow me when I dismounted, would come to me 
in the morning to be noticed and caressed; and would 
put his muzzle between me and my book, as I sat read¬ 
ing at the foot of a tree. The feeling I had for this my 
dumb companion of the prairies gave me some faint idea 
of that attachment the Arab is said to entertain for the 
horse that has borne him about the deserts. 

After riding a few miles further, we came to a fine 
meadow with a broad clear stream winding through it, 
on the banks of which there was excellent pasturage. 
Here we at once came to a halt, in a beautiful grove of 
elms, on the site of an old Osage encampment. Scarce¬ 
ly had we dismounted, when a universal firing of rifles 
took place upon a large flock of turkeys, scattered about 
the grove, which proved to be a favorite roosting-place 
for these simple birds. They flew to the trees, and sat 
perched upon their branches, stretching out their long 
necks, and gazing in stupid astonishment, until eighteen 
of them were shot down. 

In the height of the carnage, word was brought that 


168 


CRA YON MTSCELL ANY. 


there were four buffaloes in a neighboring meadow. The 
turkeys were now abandoned for nobler game. The 
tired horses were again mounted, and urged to the chase. 
In a little while we came in sight of the buffaloes, look¬ 
ing like brown hillocks among the long green herbage. 
Beatte endeavored to get ahead of them and turn them 
towards us, that the inexperienced hunters might have 
a chance. They ran round the base of a rocky hill, that 
hid us from the sight. Some of us endeavored to cut 
across the hill, but became entrapped in a thick wood 
matted with grape-vines. My horse, who under his 
former rider had hunted the buffalo, seemed as much 
excited as myself, and endeavored to force his way 
through the bushes. At length we extricated ourselves, 
and galloping over the hill, I found our little French¬ 
man Tonish curvetting on horseback round a great buf¬ 
falo which he had wounded too severely to fly, and which 
he was keeping employed until we should come up. 
There was a mixture of the grand and the comic in 
beholding this tremendous animal and his fantastic as¬ 
sailant. The buffalo stood with his shagged front al¬ 
ways presented to his foe; his mouth open, his tongue 
parched, his eyes like coals of fire, and his tail erect 
with rage; every now and then he would make a faint 
rush upon his foe, who easily evaded his attack, caper¬ 
ing and cutting all kinds of antics before him. 

We now made repeated shots at the buffalo, but they 
glanced into his mountain of flesh without proving mor- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRTES. 


169 


tal. He made a slow and grand retreat into the shallow 
river, turning upon his assailants whenever they pressed 
upon him; and when in the water, took his stand there 
as if prepared to sustain a siege. A rifle-ball, however, 
more fatally lodged, sent a tremor through his frame. 
He turned and attempted to wade across the stream, but 
after tottering a few paces, slowly fell upon his side and 
expired. It was the fall of a hero, and we felt somewhat 
ashamed of the butchery that had effected it; but, after 
the first shot or two, we had reconciled it to our feelings, 
by the old plea of putting the poor animal out of his 
misery. 

Two other buffaloes were killed this evening, but they 
were all bulls, the flesh of which is meagre and hard at 
this season of the year. A fat buck yielded us more 
savory meat for our evening’s repast. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


RINGING THE WILD HORSE. 


E left the buffalo-camp about eight o’clock, and 
had a toilsome and harassing march of two 
hours, over ridges of hills, covered with a rag¬ 
ged meagre forest of scrub-oaks, and broken by deep 
gullies. Among the oaks I observed many of the most 
diminutive size; some not above a foot high, yet bearing 
abundance of small acorns. The whole of the Cross 
Timber, in fact, abounds with mast. There is a pine-oak 
which produces an acorn pleasant to the taste, and ripen¬ 
ing early in the season. 

About ten o’clock in the morning we came to where 
this line of rugged hills swept down into a valley, 
through which flowed the north fork of the Red River. 
A beautiful meadow about half a mile wide, enamelled 
with yellow autumnal flowers, stretched for two or three 
miles along the foot of the hills, bordered on the oppo¬ 
site side by the river, whose banks were fringed with 
cotton-wood trees, the bright foliage of which refreshed 
and delighted the eye, after being wearied by the con¬ 
templation of monotonous wastes of brown forest. 

170 






A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES . 


171 


The meadow was finely diversified by groves and 
clumps of trees, so happily dispersed, that they seemed 
as if set out by the hand of art. As we cast our eyes 
over this fresh and delightful valley, we beheld a troop 
of wild horses, quietly grazing on a green lawn, about a 
mile distant to our right, while to our left, at nearly the 
same distance, were several buffaloes,—some feeding, 
others reposing and ruminating among the high rich 
herbage, under the shade of a clump of cotton-wood 
trees. The whole had the appearance of a broad beauti¬ 
ful tract of pasture-land, on the highly ornamented estate 
of some gentleman farmer, with his cattle grazing about 
the lawns and meadows. 

A council of war was now held, and it was determined 
to profit by the present favorable opportunity, and try 
our hand at the grand hunting manoeuvre, which is called 
ringing the wild horse. This requires a large party of 
horsemen, well mounted. They extend themselves in 
each direction, singly, at certain distances apart, and 
gradually form a ring of two or three miles in circumfer¬ 
ence, so as to surround the game. This has to be done 
with extreme care, for the wild horse is the most readily 
alarmed inhabitant of the prairie, and can scent a hunter 
at a great distance, if to windward. 

The ring being formed, two or three ride towards the 
horses, who start off in an opposite direction. Whenever 
they approach the bounds of the ring, however, a hunts¬ 
man presents himself and turns them from their course. 


172 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


In this way they are checked and driven back at every 
point; and kept galloping round and round this magic 
circle, until, being completely tired down, it is easy for 
the hunters to ride up beside them, and throw the lariat 
over their heads. The prime horses of most speed, 
courage, and bottom, however, are apt to break through 
and escape, so that, in general, it is the second-rate 
horses that are taken. 

Preparations were now made for a hunt of the kind. 
The pack-horses were taken into the woods and firmly 
tied to trees, lest, in a rush of the wild horses, they 
should break away with them. Twenty-five men were 
then sent, under the command of a lieutenant, to steal 
along the edge of the valley within the strip of wood that 
skirted the hills. They were to station themselves about 
fifty yards apart, within the edge of the woods, and not 
advance or show themselves until the horses dashed in 
that direction. Twenty-five men were sent across the 
valley, to steal in like manner along the river-bank that 
bordered the opposite side, and to station themselves 
among the trees. A third party, of about the same num¬ 
ber, was to form a line stretching across the lower part 
of the valley, so as to connect the two wings. Beatte 
and our other half-breed Antoine, together with the 
ever-officious Tonish, were to make a circuit through 
the woods, so as to get to the upper part of the valley, 
in the rear of the horses, and to drive them forward 
into the kind of sack that we had formed, while the two 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


173 


wings should join behind them and make a complete 
circle. 

The flanking parties were quietly extending them¬ 
selves, out of sight, on each side of the valley, and the 
residue were stretching themselves, like the links of a 
chain, across it, when the wild horses gave signs that 
they scented an enemy; snuffing the air, snorting, and 
looking about. At length they pranced off slowly toward 
the river, and disappeared behind a green bank. Here, 
had the regulations of the chase been observed, they 
would have been quietly checked and turned back by 
the advance of a hunter from among the trees; unluck¬ 
ily, however, we had our wildfire Jack-o’-lantern little 
Frenchman to deal with. Instead of keeping quietly up 
the right side of the valley, to get above the horses, the 
moment he saw them move toward the river he broke out 
of the covert of woods, and dashed furiously across the 
plain in pursuit of them, being mounted on one of the 
led horses belonging to the Count. This put an end to 
all system. The half-breeds and half a score of rangers 
joined in the chase. Away they all went over the green 
bank; in a moment or two the wild horses reappeared, 
and came thundering down the valley, with Frenchman, 
half-breeds, and rangers galloping and yelling like devils 
behind them. It was in vain that the line drawn across 
the valley attempted to check and turn back the fugi¬ 
tives. They were too hotly pressed by their pursuers; 
in their panic they dashed through the line, and clat- 


174 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


tered down the plain. The whole troop joined in the 
headlong chase, some of the rangers without hats or 
caps, their hair flying about their ears; others with 
handkerchiefs tied round their heads. The buffaloes, 
who had been calmly ruminating among the herbage, 
heaved up their huge forms, gazed for a moment with 
astonishment at the tempest that came scouring down 
the meadow, then turned and took to heavy-rolling flight. 
They were soon overtaken: the promiscuous throng 
were pressed together by the contracting sides of the 
valley, and away they went, pell-mell, hurry-scurry, wild 
buffalo, wild horse, wild huntsman, with clang and clat¬ 
ter, and whoop and halloo, that made the forests ring. 

At length the buffaloes turned into a green brake on 
the river-bank, while the horses dashed up a narrow de¬ 
file of the hills, with their pursuers close at their heels. 
Beatte passed several of them, having fixed his eye upon 
a fine Pawnee horse, that had his ears slit, and saddle- 
marks upon his back. He pressed him gallantly, but 
lost him in the woods. Among the wild horses was a 
fine black mare, far gone with foal. In scrambling up 
the defile, she tripped and fell. A young ranger sprang 
from his horse, and seized her by the mane and muzzle. 
Another ranger dismounted, and came to his assistance. 
The mare struggled fiercely, kicking and biting, and 
striking with her fore-feet; but a noose was slipped over 
her head, and her struggles were in vain. It was some 
time, however, before she gave over rearing and plung- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


175 


mg, and lashing out with her feet on every side. The 
two rangers then led her along the valley by two long 
lariats, which enabled them to keep at a sufficient dis¬ 
tance on each side to be out of the reach of her hoofs; 
and whenever she struck out in one direction, she was 
jerked in the other. In this way her spirit was gradu¬ 
ally subdued. 

As to little Scaramouch Tonish, who had marred the 
whole scene by his precipitancy, he had been more suc¬ 
cessful than he deserved, having managed to catch a 
beautiful cream-colored colt, about seven months old, 
which had not strength to keep up with its companions. 
The mercurial little Frenchman was beside himself with 
exultation. It was amusing to see him with his prize. 
The colt would rear and kick, and struggle to get free, 
when Tonish would take him about the neck, wrestle 
with him, jump on his back, and cut as many antics as a 
monkey with a kitten. Nothing surprised me more, 
however, than to witness how soon these poor animals, 
thus taken from the unbounded freedom of the prairie, 
yielded to the dominion of man. In the course of two or 
three days the mare and colt went with the led horses, 
and became quite docile. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 


POBDING OF THB NORTH FORK.—DREARY SCENERY OF THE CROSS TIMBIK.— 
SCAMPER OF HORSES IN THE NIGHT.—OSAGE WAR-PARTY.—EFFECTS OF A 
PEACE HARANGUE.—BUFFALO.—WILD HORSE. 


ESUMING our march, we forded the North 
Fork, a rapid stream, and of a purity seldom to 
be found in the rivers of the prairies. It evi¬ 
dently had its sources in high land, well supplied with 
springs. After crossing the river, we again ascended 
among hills, from one of which we had an extensive view 
over this belt of cross timber, and a cheerless prospect it 
was,—hill beyond hill, forest beyond forest, all of one 
sad russet hue, excepting that here and there a line of 
green cotton-wood trees, sycamores, and willows marked 
the course of some streamlet through a valley. A pro¬ 
cession of buffaloes, moving slowly up the profile of one 
of those distant hills, formed a characteristic object in 
the savage scene. To the left, the eye stretched beyond 
this rugged wilderness of hills, and ravines, and ragged 
forests, to a prairie about ten miles off, extending in a 
clear blue line along the horizon. It was like looking 
from among rocks and breakers upon a distant tract of 

176 





A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


177 


tranquil ocean. Unluckily, our route did not lie in that 
direction; we still had to traverse many a weary mile of 
the “ cross timber.” 

We encamped towards evening in a valley, beside a 
scanty pool, under a scattered grove of elms, the up¬ 
per branches oi which were fringed with tufts of the 
mystic mistletoe. In the course of the night, the wild 
colt whinnied repeatedly; and about two hours before 
day there was a sudden stampedo, or rush of horses, 
along the purlieus of the camp, with a snorting and 
neighing, and clattering of hoofs, that startled most of 
the rangers from their sleep, who listened in silence, 
until the sound died away like the rushing of a blast. 
As usual, the noise was at first attributed to some party 
of marauding Indians; but as the day dawned, a couple 
of wild horses were seen in a neighboring meadow, 
which scoured off on being approached. It was now 
supposed that a gang of them had dashed through our 
camp in the night. A general mustering of our horses 
took place; many were found scattered to a considerable 
distance, and several were not to be found. The prints 
of their hoofs, however, appeared deeply dinted in the 
soil, leading off at full speed into the waste; and their 
owners, putting themselves on the trail, set off in weary 
search of them. 

We had a ruddy daybreak but the morning gathered 
up gray and lowering, with indications of an autumnal 
storm. We resumed our march silently and seriously, 
12 


178 


CRA TON MISCELLANY. 


through a rough and cheerless country, from the highest 
points of which we could descry large prairies stretch¬ 
ing indefinitely westward. After travelling for two or 
three hours, as we were traversing a withered prairie 
resembling a great brown heath, we beheld seven Osage 
warriors approaching at a distance. The sight of any 
human being in this lonely wilderness was interesting; 
it was like speaking a ship at sea. One of the Indians 
took the lead of his companions, and advanced towards 
us, with head erect, chest thrown forward, and a free 
and noble mien. He was a fine-looking fellow, dressed 
in scarlet frock and fringed leggins of deer-skin. His 
head was decorated with a white tuft, and he stepped 
forward with something of a martial air, swaying his bow 
and arrows in one hand. We held some conversation 
with him through our interpreter, Beatte, and found 
that he and his companions had been with the main 
part of their tribe hunting the buffalo, and had met with 
great success; and he informed us that in the course of 
another day’s march we would reach the prairies on the 
banks of the Grand Canadian, and find plenty of game. 
He added, that, as their hunt was over, and the hunt¬ 
ers on their return homeward, he and his comrades had 
set out on a war party, to waylay and hover about 
some Pawnee camp, in hopes of carrying off scalps or 
horses. 

By this time his companions, who at first stood aloof, 
joined him. Three of them had indifferent fowling- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES . 


179 


pieces; the rest were armed with bows and arrows. I 
could not but admire the finely-shaped heads and busts 
of these savages, and their graceful attitudes and expres¬ 
sive gestures, as they stood conversing with our inter¬ 
preter, and surrounded by a cavalcade of rangers. We 
endeavored to get one of them to join us, as we were de¬ 
sirous of seeing him hunt the buffalo with his bow and 
arrow. He seemed at first inclined to do so, but was 
dissuaded by his companions. 

The worthy Commissioner now remembered his mis¬ 
sion as pacificator, and made a speech, exhorting them 
to abstain from all offensive acts against the Pawnees ; 
informing them of the plan of their father at Washington, 
to put an end to all war among his red children; and 
assuring them that he was sent to the frontier to estab¬ 
lish a universal peace. He told them, therefore, to re¬ 
turn quietly to their homes, with the certainty that the 
Pawnees would no longer molest them, but would soon 
regard them as brothers. 

The Indians listened to the speech with their custom¬ 
ary silence and decorum; after which, exchanging a few 
words among themselves, they bade us farewell, and pur¬ 
sued their way across the prairie. 

Fancying that I saw a lurking smile in the counte¬ 
nance of our interpreter, Beatte, I privately inquired 
what the Indians had said to each other after hearing 
the speech. The leader, he said, had observed to his 
companions, that, as their great father intended so soon 


180 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


to put an end to all warfare, it behooved them to make 
the most of the little time that was left them. So they 
had departed, with redoubled zeal, to pursue their pro¬ 
ject of horse-stealing! 

We had not long parted from the Indians before we 
discovered three buffaloes among the thickets of a 
marshy valley to our left. I set off with the Captain 
and several rangers, in pursuit of them. Stealing through 
a straggling grove, the Captain, who took the lead, got 
within rifle-shot, and wounded one of them in the flank. 
They all three made off in headlong panic, through 
thickets and brushwood, and swamp and mire, bearing 
down every obstacle by their immense weight. The 
Captain and rangers soon gave up a chase which threat¬ 
ened to knock up their horses; I had got upon the traces 
of the wounded bull, however, and was in hopes of get¬ 
ting near enough to use my pistols, the only weapons 
with which I was provided; but before I could effect it, 
he reached the foot of a rocky hill covered with post-oak 
and brambles, and plunged forward, dashing and crash¬ 
ing along, with neck-or-nothing-fury, where it would 
have been madness to have followed him. 

The chase had led me so far on one side, that it was 
some time before I regained the trail of our troop. As 
I was slowly ascending a hill, a fine black mare came 
prancing round the summit, and was close to me before 
she was aware. At sight of me she started back, then 
turning, swept at full speed down into the valley, and up 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


181 


the opposite hill, with flowing mane and tail, and action 
free as air. I gazed after her as long as she was in 
sight, and breathed a wish that so glorious an animal 
might never come under the degrading thraldom of whip 
and curb, but remain a free rover of the prairies. 


CHAPTER lira 


FOUL-WEATHER ENCAMPMENT.—ANECDOTES OF BEAR-HUNTING.—INDIAN NO¬ 
TIONS ABOUT OMENS.—SCRUPLES RESPECTING THE DEAD. 

N overtaking tlie troop, I found it encamping 
in a rich bottom of woodland, traversed by a 
small stream, running between deep crumbling 
banks. A sharp cracking off of rifles was kept up for 
some time in various directions, upon a numerous flock 
of turkeys, scampering among the thickets, or perched 
upon the trees. We had not been long at a halt, when a 
drizzling rain ushered in the autumnal storm that had 
been brewing. Preparations were immediately made to 
weather it; our tent was pitched, and our saddles, saddle¬ 
bags, packages of coffee, sugar, salt, and everything else 
that could be damaged by the rain, were gathered under 
its shelter. Our men, Beatte, Tonish, and Antoine, drove 
stakes with forked ends into the ground, laid poles across 
them for rafters, and thus made a shed or pent-house, 
covered with bark and skins, sloping towards the wind, 
and open towards the fire. The rangers formed similar 
shelters of bark and skins, or of blankets stretched on 

poles, supported by forked stakes, with great fires in front. 

182 








A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


183 


These precautions were well-timed. The rain set in 
sullenly and steadily, and kept on, with slight intermis¬ 
sions, for two days. The brook, which flowed peaceably 
on our arrival, swelled into a turbid and boiling torrent, 
and the forest became little better than a mere swamp. 
The men gathered under their shelters of skins and blan¬ 
kets, or sat cowering round their fires ; while columns of 
smoke curling up among the trees, and diffusing them¬ 
selves in the air, spread a blue haze through the wood¬ 
land. Our poor, way-worn horses, reduced by weary 
travel and scanty pasturage, lost all remaining spirit, and 
stood, with drooping heads, flagging ears, and half-closed 
eyes, dozing and steaming in the rain; while the yellow 
autumnal leaves, at every shaking of the breeze, came 
wavering down around them. 

Notwithstanding the bad weather, however, our hunt¬ 
ers were not idle, but during the intervals of the rain 
sallied forth on horseback to prowl through the wood¬ 
land. Every now and then the sharp report of a distant 
rifle boded the death of a deer. Venison in abundance 
was, brought in. Some busied themselves under the 
sheds, flaying and cutting up the carcasses, or round the 
fires with spits and camp-kettles, and a rude kind of 
feasting, or rather gormandizing, prevailed throughout 
the camp. The axe was continually at work, and wearied 
the forest with its echoes. Crash! some mighty tree 
would come down; in a few minutes its limbs would be 
blazing and crackling on the huge camp-fires, with some 


184 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


luckless deer roasting before it, that had once sported 
beneath its shade. 

The change of weather had taken sharp hold of our 
little Frenchman. His meagre frame, composed of bones 
and whip-cord, was racked with rheumatic pains and 
twinges. He had the toothache—the earache—his face 
was tied up—he had shooting pains in every limb; yet 
all seemed but to increase his restless activity, and he 
was in an incessant fidget about the fire, roasting, and 
stewing, and groaning, and scolding, and swearing. 

Our man Beatte returned grim and mortified, from 
hunting. He had come upon a bear of formidable di¬ 
mensions, and wounded him with a rifle-shot. The bear 
took to the brook, which was swollen and rapid. Beatte 
dashed in after him and assailed him in the rear with his 
hunting-knife. At every blow the bear turned furiously 
upon him, with a terrific display of white teeth. Beatte, 
having a foothold in the brook, was enabled to push him 
off with his rifle, and, when he turned to swim, would 
flounder after, and attempt to hamstring him. The bear, 
however, succeeded in scrambling off among the thickets, 
and Beatte had to give up the chase. 

This adventure, if it produced no game, brought up 
at least several anecdotes, round the evening fire, relative 
to bear-hunting, in which the grizzly bear figured con¬ 
spicuously. This powerful and ferocious animal is a 
favorite theme of hunter’s story, both among red and 
white men; and his enormous claws are worn round the 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


185 


neck of an Indian brave, as a trophy more honorable 
than a human scalp. He is now scarcely seen below the 
upper prairies, and the skirts of the Rocky Mountains. 
Other bears are formidable when wounded and pro¬ 
voked, but seldom make battle when allowed to escape. 
The grizzly bear alone, of all the animals of our Western 
wilds, is prone to unprovoked hostility. His prodigious 
size and strength make him a formidable opponent; and 
his great tenacity of life often baffles the skill of the 
hunter, notwithstanding repeated shots of the rifle and 
wounds of the hunting-knife. 

One of the anecdotes related on this occasion gave a 
picture of the accidents and hard shifts to which our 
frontier rovers are inured. A hunter, while in pursuit 
of a deer, fell into one of those deep funnel-shaped pits 
formed on the prairies by the settling of the waters after 
heavy rains, and known by the name of sink-holes. To 
his great horror he came in contact, at the bottom, with 
a huge grizzly bear. The monster grappled him; a 
deadly contest ensued, in which the poor hunter was 
severely torn and bitten, and had a leg and an arm 
broken, but succeeded in killing his rugged foe. For 
several days he remained at the bottom of the pit, too 
much crippled to move, and subsisting on the raw flesh 
of the bear, during which time he kept his wounds open, 
that they might heal gradually and effectually. He was 
at length enabled to scramble to the top of the pit, and 
so out upon the open prairie. With great difficulty he 


186 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


crawled to a ravine formed by a stream then nearly dry. 
Here he took a delicious draught of water, which infused 
new life into him ; then dragging himself along from 
pool to pool, he supported himself by small fish and 
frogs. 

One day he saw a wolf hunt down and kill a deer in a 
neighboring prairie. He immediately crawled forth from 
the ravine, drove off the wolf, and, lying down beside 
the carcass of the deer, remained there until he made 
several hearty meals, by which his strength was much 
recruited. 

[Returning to the ravine, he pursued the course of the 
brook, until it grew to be a considerable stream. Down 
this he floated, until he came to where it emptied into 
the Mississippi. Just at the mouth of the stream he 
found a forked tree, which he launched with some diffi¬ 
culty, and, getting astride of it, committed himself to 
the current of the mighty river. In this way he floated 
along until he arrived opposite the fort at Council Bluffs. 
Fortunately he arrived there in the daytime, otherwise 
he might have floated unnoticed past this solitary post, 
and perished in the idle waste of waters. Being de¬ 
scried from the fort, a canoe was sent to his relief, and 
he was brought to shore, more dead than alive, where he 
soon recovered from his wounds, but remained maimed 
for life. 

Our man Beatte had come out of his contest with the 
bear very much worsted and discomfited. His drench- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


187 


ing in the brook, together with the recent change of 
weather, had brought on rheumatic pains in his limbs, 
to which he is subject. Though ordinarily a fellow of 
undaunted spirit, and above all hardship, yet he now sat 
down by the fire, gloomy and dejected, and for once gave 
way to repining. Though in the prime of life, and of a 
robust frame and apparently iron constitution, yet by his 
own account he was little better than a mere wreck. He 
was, in fact, a living monument of the hardships of wild 
frontier life. Baring his left arm, he showed it warped 
and contracted by a former attack of rheumatism,—a 
malady with which the Indians are often afflicted, for 
their exposure to the vicissitudes of the elements does 
not produce that perfect hardihood and insensibility to 
the changes of the seasons that many are apt to imagine. 
He bore the scars of various maims and bruises, some 
received in hunting, some in Indian warfare. His right 
arm had been broken by a fall from his horse; at another 
time his steed had fallen with him, and crushed his left 
leg. 

“ I am all broke to pieces and good for nothing,” said 
he; “I no care now what happen to me any more.” 
“However,” added he, after a moment’s pause, “for all 
that, it would take a pretty strong man to put me down, 
anyhow.” 

I drew from him various particulars concerning him¬ 
self, which served to raise him in my estimation. His 
residence was on the Neosho, in an Osage hamlet or 


188 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


neighborhood, under the superintendence of a worthy 
missionary from the banks of the Hudson, by the name 
of Eequa, who was endeavoring to instruct the savages 
in the art of agriculture, and to make husbandmen and 
herdsmen of them. I had visited this agricultural mis¬ 
sion of Eequa in the course of my recent tour along the 
frontier, and had considered it more likely to produce 
solid advantages to the poor Indians than any of the 
mere praying and preaching missions along the border. 

In this neighborhood, Pierre Beatte had his little 
farm, his Indian wife, and his half-breed children, and 
aided Mr. Eequa in his endeavors to civilize the habits 
and meliorate the condition of the Osage tribe. Beatte 
had been brought up a Catholic, and was inflexible in his 
religious faith; he could not pray with Mr. Eequa, he 
said, but he could work with him, and he evinced a zeal 
for the good of his savage relations and neighbors. In¬ 
deed, though his father had been French, and he himself 
had been brought up in communion with the whites, he 
evidently was more of an Indian in his tastes, and his 
heart yearned towards his mother’s nation. When he 
talked to me of the wrongs and insults that the poor 
Indians suffered in their intercourse with the rough set¬ 
tlers on the frontier,—when he described the precarious 
and degraded state of the Osage tribe, diminished in 
numbers, broken in spirit, and almost living on suf¬ 
ferance in the land where they once figured so heroically, 
—I could see his veins swell, and his nostrils distend 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


189 


with indignation; but he would check the feeling with a 
strong exertion of Indian self-command, and, in a man¬ 
ner, drive it back into his bosom. 

He did not hesitate to relate an instance wherein he 
had joined his kindred Osages in pursuing and avenging 
themselves on a party of white men who had committed 
a flagrant outrage upon them; and I found, in the en¬ 
counter that took place, Beatte had shown himself the 
complete Indian. 

He had more than once accompanied his Osage rela¬ 
tions in their wars with the Pawnees, and related a skir¬ 
mish which took place on the borders of these very 
hunting-grounds, in which several Pawnees were killed. 
We should pass near the place, he said, in the course of 
our tour, and the unburied bones and skulls of the slain 
were still to be seen there. The surgeon of the troop, 
who was present at our conversation, pricked up his ears 
at this intelligence. He was something of a phrenolo¬ 
gist, and offered Beatte a handsome reward if he would 
procure him one of the skulls. 

Beatte regarded him for a moment with a look of stern 
surprise. 

“ No! ” said he at length, “ dat too bad! I have heart 
strong enough—I no care kill, but let the dead alone ! ” 

He added, that once, in travelling with a party of 
white men, he had slept in the same tent with a doctor, 
and found that he had a Pawnee skull among his bag¬ 
gage : he at once renounced the doctor’s tent, and his 


190 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


fellowship. “ He try to coax me,” said Beatte, “ but 1 
say no, we must part—I no keep such company.” 

In the temporary depression of his spirits, Beatte gave 
way to those superstitious forebodings to which Indians 
are prone. He had sat for some time, with his cheek 
upon his hand, gazing into the fire. I found his thoughts 
were wandering back to his humble home, on the banks 
of the Neosho; he was sure, he said, that he should find 
some one of his family ill, or dead, on his return; his left 
eye had twitched and twinkled for two days past; an 
omen which always boded some misfortune of the kind. 

Such are the trivial circumstances which, when mag¬ 
nified into omens, will shake the souls of these men of 
iron. The least sign of mystic and sinister portent is 
sufficient to turn a hunter or a warrior from his course, 
or to fill his mind with apprehensions of impending evil. 
It is this superstitious propensity, common to the soli¬ 
tary and savage rovers of the wilderness, that gives such 
powerful influence to the prophet and the dreamer. 

The Osages, with whom Beatte had passed much of 
his life, retain these superstitious fancies and rites in 
much of their original force. They all believe in the 
existence of the soul after its separation from the body, 
and that it carries with it all its mortal tastes and hab¬ 
itudes. At an Osage village in the neighborhood of 
Beatte, one of the chief warriors lost an only child, a 
beautiful girl, of a very tender age. All her playthings 
were buried with her. Her favorite little horse, also, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


191 


was killed, and laid in the grave beside her, that she 
might have it to ride in the land of spirits. 

I will here add a little story, which I picked up in the 
course of my tour through Beatte’s country, and which 
illustrates the superstitions of his Osage kindred. A 
large party of Osages had been encamped for some time 
on the borders of a fine stream called the Nickanansa. 
Among them was a young hunter, one of the bravest and 
most graceful of the tribe, who was to be married to an 
Osage girl, who, for her beauty, was called the Flower of 
the Prairies. The young hunter left her for a time among 
her relatives in the encampment, and went to St. Louis, 
to dispose of the products of his hunting, and purchase 
ornaments for his bride. After an absence of some 
weeks, he returned to the banks of the Nickanansa, but 
the camp was no longer there ; the bare frames of the 
lodges and the brands of extinguished fires alone marked 
the place. At a distance he beheld a female seated, as 
if weeping, by the side of the stream. It was his affi¬ 
anced bride. He ran to embrace her, but she turned 
mournfully away. He dreaded lest some evil had be¬ 
fallen the camp. 

“ Where are our people ? ” cried he. 

“They are gone to the banks of the Wagrushka. ,, 

" And what art thou doing here alone ? ” 

“ Waiting for thee.” 

“ Then let us hasten to join our people on the banks 
of the Wagrushka.” 


192 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


He gave her his pack to carry, and walked ahead, 
according to the Indian custom. 

They came to where the smoke of the distant camp was 
seen rising from the woody margin of the stream. The 
girl seated herself at the foot of a tree. “ It is not proper 
for us to return together,” said she ; “ I will wait here.” 

The young hunter proceeded to the camp alone, and 
was received by his relations with gloomy countenances. 

“ What evil has happened,” said he, “ that ye are all so 
sad?” 

No one replied. 

He turned to his favorite sister, and bade her go forth, 
seek his bride, and conduct her to the camp. 

“ Alas! ” cried she, “ how shall I seek her ? She died 
a lew days since.” 

The relations of the young girl now surrounded him, 
weeping and wailing; but he refused to believe the dis¬ 
mal tidings. “ But a few moments since,” cried he, “ I 
left her alone and in health; come with me, and I will 
conduct you to her.” 

He led the way to the tree where she had seated her¬ 
self, but she was no longer there, and his pack lay on the 
ground. The fatal truth struck him to the heart; he fell 
to the ground dead. 

I give this simple little story almost in the words in 
which it was related to me as I lay by the fire in an even¬ 
ing encampment on the banks of the haunted stream 
where it is said to have happened. 


CHAPTER XXVm. 


A SECRET EXPEDITION,—DEER-BLEATING.—MAGIC BALLS. 



N the following morning we were rejoined by 
the rangers who had remained at the last en¬ 
campment, to seek for the stray horses. They 
had tracked them for a considerable distance through 
bush and brake, and across streams, until they found 
them cropping the herbage on the edge of a prairie. 
Their heads were in the direction of the fort, and they 
were evidently grazing their way homeward, heedless of 
the unbounded freedom of the prairie so suddenly laid 
open to them. 

About noon the weather held up, and I observed a 
mysterious consultation going on between our half- 
breeds and Tonish; it ended in a request that we would 
dispense with the services of the latter for a few hours, 
and permit him to join his comrades in a grand foray. 
We objected that Tonish was too much disabled by aches 
and pains for such an undertaking; but he was wild with 
eagerness for the mysterious enterprise, and, when per¬ 
mission was given him, seemed to forget all his ailments 
in an instant. 

13 


193 





194 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


In a short time the trio were equipped and on horse¬ 
back, with rifles on their shoulders and handkerchiefs 
twisted round their heads, evidently bound for a grand 
scamper. As they passed by the different lodges of the 
camp, the vainglorious little Frenchman could not help 
boasting to the right and left of the great things he was 
about to achieve; though the taciturn Beatte, who rode 
in advance, would every now and then check his horse, 
and look back at him with an air of stern rebuke. It was 
hard, however, to make the loquacious Tonish play 
“ Indian.” 

Several of the hunters, likewise, sallied forth, and the 
prime old woodman, Ryan, came back early in the after¬ 
noon, with ample spoil, having killed a buck and two fat 
does. I drew near to a group of rangers that had gath¬ 
ered round him as he stood by the spoil, and found they 
were discussing the merits of a stratagem sometimes 
used in deer-hunting. This consists in imitating, with a 
small instrument called a bleat, the cry of the fawn, so as 
to lure the doe within reach of the rifle. There are bleats 
of various kinds, suited to calm or windy weather, and to 
the age of the fawn. The poor animal, deluded by them, 
in its anxiety about its young, will sometimes advance 
close up to the hunter. “ I once bleated a doe,” said a 
young hunter, “ until it came within twenty yards of me, 
and presented a sure mark. I levelled my rifle three 
times, but had not the heart to shoot, for the poor 
doe looked so wistfully, that it in a manner made my 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


195 


heart yearn. I thought of my own mother, and how anx¬ 
ious she used to be about me when I was a child; so, 
to put an end to the matter, I gave a halloo, and started 
the doe out of rifle-shot in a moment.” 

“ And you did right,” cried honest old Kyan. “ For 
my part, I never could bring myself to bleating deer. 
I’ve been with hunters who had bleats, and have made 
them throw them away. It is a rascally trick to take 
advantage of a mother’s love for her young.” 

Towards evening, our three worthies returned from 
their mysterious foray. The tongue of Tonish gave no¬ 
tice of their approach long before they came in sight; for 
he was vociferating at the top of his lungs, and rousing 
the attention of the whole camp. The lagging gait and 
reeking flanks of their horses gave evidence of hard rid¬ 
ing ; and, on nearer approach, we found them hung round 
with meat, like a butcher’s shambles. In fact they had 
been scouring an immense prairie that extended beyond 
the forest, and which was covered with herds of buffalo. 
Of this prairie, and the animals upon it, Beatte had re^ 
ceived intelligence a few days before, in his conversation 
with the Osages, but had kept the information a secret 
from the rangers, that he and his comrades might have 
the first dash at the game. They had contented them¬ 
selves with killing four; though, if Tonish might be be¬ 
lieved, they might have slain them by scores. 

These tidings, and the buffalo-meat brought home in 
evidence, spread exultation through the camp, and every 


196 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


one looked forward with joy to a buffalo-hunt on the 
prairies. Tonish was again the oracle of the camp, and 
held forth by the hour to a knot of listeners, crouched 
round the fire, with their shoulders up to their ears. He 
was now more boastful than ever of his skill as a marks¬ 
man. All his want of success in the early part of our 
march he attributed to being “ out of luck,” if not “ spell¬ 
bound”; and finding himself listened to with apparent 
credulity, gave an instance of the kind, which he declared 
had happened to himself, but which was evidently a tale 
picked up among his relations, the Osages. 

According to this account, when about fourteen years 
of age, as he was one day hunting, he saw a white deer 
come out from a ravine. Crawling near to get a shot, he 
beheld another and another come forth, until there were 
seven, all as white as snow. Having crept sufficiently 
near, he singled one out and fired, but without effect; the 
deer remained unfrightened. He loaded and fired again, 
and again he missed. Thus he continued firing and 
missing until all his ammunition was expended, and the 
deer remained without a wound. He returned home de¬ 
spairing of his skill as a marksman, but was consoled by 
an old Osage hunter. These white deer, said he, have a 
charmed life, and can only be killed by bullets of a par¬ 
ticular kind. 

The old Indian cast several balls for Tonish, but would 
not suffer him to be present on the occasion, nor inform 
him of the ingredients and mystic ceremonials. 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


197 


Provided with these balls, Tonish again set out in 
quest of the white deer, and succeeded in finding them. 
He tried at first with ordinary balls, but missed as be¬ 
fore. A magic ball, however, immediately brought a fine 
buck to the ground. Whereupon the rest of the herd 
immediately disappeared, and were never seen again. 

Oct. 29. The morning opened gloomy and lowering; 
but towards eight o’clock the sun struggled forth and 
lighted up the forest, and the notes of the bugle gave 
signal to prepare for marching. Now began a scene of 
bustle, and clamor, and gayety. Some were scampering 
and brawling after their horses ; some were riding in 
barebacked, and driving in the horses of their com¬ 
rades. Some were stripping the poles of the wet blan¬ 
kets that had served for shelters; others packing up 
with all possible dispatch, and loading the baggage 
horses as they arrived, while others were cracking off 
their damp rifles and charging them afresh, to be ready 
for the sport. 

About ten o’clock we began our march. I loitered in 
the rear of the troop as it forded the turbid brook and 
defiled through the labyrinths of the forest. I always 
felt disposed to linger until the last straggler disap¬ 
peared among the trees, and the distant note of the bugle 
died upon the ear, that I might behold the wilderness 
relapsing into silence and solitude. In the present in¬ 
stance, the deserted scene of our late bustling encamp¬ 
ment had a forlorn and desolate appearance. The sur- 


198 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


rounding forest had been in many places trampled into a 
quagmire. Trees felled and partly hewn in pieces, and 
scattered in huge fragments; tent-poles stripped of their 
covering; smouldering fires, with great morsels of roasted 
venison and buffalo meat, standing in wooden spits be¬ 
fore them, hacked and slashed by the knives of hungry 
hunters; while around were strewed the hides, the horns, 
the antlers and bones of buffaloes and deer, with un¬ 
cooked joints, and unplucked turkeys, left behind with 
that reckless improvidence and wastefulness which young 
hunters are apt to indulge when in a neighborhood where 
game abounds. In the meantime a score or two of tur¬ 
key-buzzards, or vultures, were already on the wing, 
wheeling their magnificent flight high in the air, and 
preparing for a descent upon the camp as soon as it 
should be abandoned. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE GRAND PRAIRIE.—A BUFFALO HUNT. 

proceeding about two hours in a south- 
direction, we emerged towards mid-day 
the dreary belt of the Cross Timber, and 
to our infinite delight beheld “the Great Prairie,” 
stretching to the right and left before us. We could 
distinctly trace the meandering course of the Main Ca¬ 
nadian, and various smaller streams, by the strips of 
green forest that bordered them. The landscape was 
vast and beautiful. There is always an expansion of 
feeling in looking upon these boundless and fertile 
wastes; but I was doubly conscious of it after emerging 
from our “ close dungeon of innumerous boughs.” 

From a rising ground Beatte pointed out the place 
where he and his comrades had killed the buffaloes; and 
we beheld several black objects moving in the distance, 
which he said were part of the herd. The Captain de¬ 
termined to shape his course to a woody bottom about 
a mile distant, and to encamp there for a day or two, by 
way of having a regular buffalo-hunt, and getting a sup¬ 
ply of provisions. As the troop defiled along the slope 

199 








200 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


of the hill towards the camping-ground, Beatte proposed 
to mj messmates and myself, that we should put our¬ 
selves under his guidance, promising to take us where 
we should have plenty of sport. Leaving the line of 
march, therefore, we diverged towards the prairie; tra¬ 
versing a small valley, and ascending a gentle swell of 
land. As we reached the summit, we beheld a gang of 
wild horses about a mile off. Beatte was immediately 
on the alert, and no longer thought of buffalo-hunting. 
He was mounted on his powerful half-wild horse, with a 
lariat coiled at the saddle-bow, and set off in pursuit; 
while we remained on a rising ground watching his ma¬ 
noeuvres with great solicitude. Taking advantage of a 
strip of woodland, he stole quietly along, so as to get 
close to them before he was perceived. The moment 
they caught sight of him a grand scamper took place. 
We watched him skirting along the horizon like a priva¬ 
teer in full chase of a merchantman; at length he passed 
over the brow of a ridge, and down into a shallow valley; 
in a few moments he was on the opposite hill, and close 
upon one of the horses. He was soon head and head, 
and appeared to be trying to noose his prey; but they 
both disappeared again below the hill, and we saw no 
more of them. It turned out afterwards that he had 
noosed a powerful horse, but could not hold him, and 
had lost his lariat in the attempt. 

While we were waiting for his return, we perceived 
two buffalo bulls descending a slope, towards a stream, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


201 


which wound through a ravine fringed with trees. The 
young Count and myself endeavored to get near them 
under covert of the trees. They discovered us while we 
were yet three or four hundred yards off, and turning 
about, retreated up the rising ground. We urged our 
horses across the ravine, and gave chase. The immense 
weight of head and shoulders causes the buffalo to labor 
heavily up-hill; but it accelerates his descent. We had 
the advantage, therefore, and gained rapidly upon the 
fugitives, though it was difficult to get our horses to 
approach them, their very scent inspiring them with ter¬ 
ror. The Count, who had a double-barrelled gun loaded 
with ball, fired, but it missed. The bulls now altered 
their course, and galloped down-hill with headlong rapid¬ 
ity. As they ran in different directions, we each singled 
one and separated. I was provided with a brace of vet¬ 
eran brass-barrelled pistols, which I had borrowed at 
Fort Gibson, and which had evidently seen some ser¬ 
vice. Pistols are very effective in buffalo-hunting, as the 
hunter can ride up close to the animal, and fire at it while 
at full speed; whereas the long heavy rifles used on the 
frontier, cannot be easily managed, nor discharged with 
accurate aim from horseback. My object, therefore, was 
to get within pistol-shot of the buffalo. This was no 
very easy matter. I was well mounted on a horse of 
excellent speed and bottom, that seemed eager for the 
chase, and soon overtook the game; but the moment he 
came nearly parallel, he would keep sheering off, with 


202 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


ears forked and pricked forward, and every symptom of 
aversion and alarm. It was no wonder. Of all animals, 
a buffalo, when close pressed by the hunter, has an as¬ 
pect the most diabolical. His two short black horns 
curve out of a huge frontlet of shaggy hair; his eyes glow 
like coals; his mouth is open, his tongue parched and 
drawn up into a half crescent; his tail is erect, and tufted 
and whisking about in the air: he is a perfect picture of 
mingled rage and terror. 

It was with difficulty I urged my horse sufficiently 
near, when, taking aim, to my chagrin both pistols 
missed fire. Unfortunately the locks of these veteran 
weapons were so much worn, that in the gallop the prim¬ 
ing had been shaken out of the pans. At the snapping 
of the last pistol I was close upon the buffalo, when, in 
his despair, he turned round with a sudden snort, and 
rushed upon me. My horse wheeled about as if on a 
pivot, made a convulsive spring, and, as I had been lean¬ 
ing on one side with pistol extended, I came near being 
thrown at the feet of the buffalo. 

Three or four bounds of the horse carried us out of the 
reach of the enemy, who, having merely turned in des¬ 
perate self-defence, quickly resumed his flight. As soon 
as I could gather in my panic-stricken horse, and prime 
the pistols afresh, I again spurred in pursuit of the buf¬ 
falo, who had slackened his speed to take breath. On 
my approach he again set off full tilt, heaving himself 
forward with a heavy rolling gallop, dashing with head- 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


203 


long precipitation through brakes and ravines, while sev¬ 
eral deer and wolves, startled from their coverts by his 
thundering career, ran helter-skelter to right and left 
across the waste. 

A gallop across the prairies in pursuit of game is by 
no means so smooth a career as those may imagine who 
have only the idea of an open level plain. It is true, the 
prairies of the hunting-ground are not so much entangled 
with flowering plants and long herbage as the lower prai¬ 
ries, and are principally covered with short buffalo-grass; 
but they are diversified by hill and dale, and where most 
level, are apt to be cut up by deep rifts and ravines, 
made by torrents after rains ; and which, yawning from 
an even surface, are almost like pitfalls in the way of the 
hunter, checking him suddenly when in full career, or 
subjecting him to the risk of limb and life. The plains, 
too, are beset by burrowing-lioles of small animals, in 
which the horse is apt to sink to the fetlock, and throw 
both himself and his rider. The late rain had covered 
some parts of the prairie, where the ground was hard, 
with a thin sheet of water, through which the horse had 
to splash his way. In other parts there were innumer¬ 
able shallow hollows, eight or ten feet in diameter, made 
by the buffaloes, who wallow in sand and mud like swine. 
These being filled with water, shone like mirrors, so that 
the horse was continually leaping over them or spring¬ 
ing on one side. We had reached, too, a rough part of 
the prairie, very much broken and cut up ; the buffalo, 


204 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


who was running for life, took no heed to his course, 
plunging down break-neck ravines, where it was neces¬ 
sary to skirt the borders in search of a safer descent. At 
length we came to where a winter stream had torn a deep 
chasm across the whole prairie, leaving open jagged 
rocks, and forming a long glen bordered by steep crum¬ 
bling cliffs of mingled stone and clay. Down one of these 
the buffalo flung himself, half tumbling, half leaping, and 
then scuttled along the bottom; while I, seeing all fur¬ 
ther pursuit useless, pulled up, and gazed quietly after 
him from the border of the cliff, until he disappeared 
amidst the windings of the ravine. 

Nothing now remained but to turn my steed and rejoin 
my companions. Here at first was some little difficulty. 
The ardor of the chase had betrayed me into a long, 
heedless gallop. I now found myself in the midst of a 
lonely waste, in which the prospect was bounded by un¬ 
dulating swells of land, naked and uniform, where, from 
the deficiency of landmarks and distinct features, an in¬ 
experienced man may become bewildered, and lose his 
way as readily as in the wastes of the ocean. The day, 
too, was overcast, so that I could not guide myself by the 
sun; my only mode was to retrace the track my horse 
had made in coming, though this I would often lose sight 
of, where the ground was covered with parched herbage. 

To one unaccustomed to it, there is something inex¬ 
pressibly lonely in the solitude of a prairie. The loneli¬ 
ness of a forest seems nothing to it. There the view is 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


205 


shut in by trees, and the imagination is left free to pic- 
ture some livelier scene beyond. But here we have an 
immense extent of landscape without a sign of human 
existence. We have the consciousness of being far, far 
beyond the bounds of human habitation; we feel as if 
moving in the midst of a desert world. As my horse 
lagged slowly back over the scenes of our late scam¬ 
per, and the delirium of the chase had passed away, I 
was peculiarly sensible to these circumstances. The 
silence of the waste was now and then broken by the cry 
of a distant flock of pelicans, stalking like spectres about 
a shallow pool; sometimes by the sinister croaking of a 
raven in the air, while occasionally a scoundrel wolf 
would scour off from before me, and, having attained a 
safe distance, would sit down and howl and whine with 
tones that gave a dreariness to the surrounding solitude. 

After pursuing my way for some time, I descried a 
horseman on the edge of a distant hill, and soon recog¬ 
nized him to be the Count. He had been equally unsuc¬ 
cessful with myself; we were shortly after rejoined by 
our worthy comrade, the Virtuoso, who, with spectacles 
on nose, had made two or three ineffectual shots from 
horseback. 

We determined not to seek the camp until we had 
made one more effort. Casting our eyes about the sur¬ 
rounding waste, we descried a herd of buffalo about two 
miles distant, scattered apart, and quietly grazing near 
a small strip of trees and bushes. It required but little 


206 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


stretch of fancy to picture them so many cattle grazing 
on the edge of a common, and that the grove might shel¬ 
ter some lonely farm-house. 

We now formed our plan to circumvent the herd, and 
by getting on the other side of them, to hunt them in the 
direction where we knew our camp to be situated: other¬ 
wise, the pursuit might take us to such a distance as to 
render it impossible to find our way back before night¬ 
fall. Taking a wide circuit therefore, we moved slowly 
and cautiously, pausing occasionally when we saw any of 
the herd desist from grazing. The wind fortunately set 
from them, otherwise they might have scented us and 
have taken the alarm. In this way we succeeded in get¬ 
ting round the herd without disturbing it. It consisted 
of about forty head; bulls, cows, and calves. Separating 
to some distance from each other, we now approached 
slowly in a parallel line, hoping by degrees to steal near 
without exciting attention. They began, however, to 
move off quietly, stopping at every step or two to graze, 
when suddenly a bull, that, unobserved by us, had been 
taking his siesta under a clump of trees to our left, 
roused himself from his lair, and hastened to join his 
companions. We were still at a considerable distance, 
but the game had taken the alarm. We quickened our 
pace, they broke into a gallop, and now commenced a 
full chase. 

As the ground was level, they shouldered along with 
great speed, following each other in a line ; two or three 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


207 


bulls bringing up the rear, the last of whom, from his 
enormous size and venerable frontlet, and beard of sun¬ 
burnt hair, looked like the patriarch of the herd, and as 
if he might long have reigned the monarch of the prairie. 

There is a mixture of the awful and the comic in the 
look of these huge animals, as they bear their great bulk 
forwards, with an up and down motion of the unwieldy 
head and shoulders, their tail cocked up like the cue of a 
Pantaloon in a pantomime, the end whisking about in a 
fierce yet whimsical style, and their eyes glaring venom¬ 
ously with an expression of fright and fury. 

For some time I kept parallel with the line, without 
being able to force my horse within pistol-shot, so much 
had he been alarmed by the assault of the buffalo in the 
preceding chase. At length I succeeded, but was again 
balked by my pistols missing fire. My companions, 
whose horses were less fleet and more wayworn, could 
not overtake the herd; at length Mr. L., who was in the 
rear of the line, and losing ground, levelled his double- 
barrelled gun, and fired a long raking shot. It struck a 
buffalo just above the loins, broke its backbone, and 
brought it to the ground. He stopped and alighted to 
dispatch his prey, when, borrowing his gun, which had 
yet a charge remaining in it, I put my horse to his speed, 
again overtook the herd which was thundering along, 
pursued by the Count. With my present weapon there 
was no need of urging my horse to such close quarters ; 
galloping along parallel, therefore, I singled out a buf- 


208 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


falo, and by a fortunate shot brought it down on the 
spot. The ball had struck a vital part; it could not 
move from the place where it fell, but lay there strug¬ 
gling in mortal agony, while the rest of the herd kept on 
their headlong career across the prairie. 

Dismounting, I now fettered my horse to prevent his 
straying, and advanced to contemplate my victim. I am 
nothing of a sportsman; I had been prompted to this 
unwonted exploit by the magnitude of the game and the 
excitement of an adventurous chase. Now that the ex¬ 
citement was over, I could not but look with commisera¬ 
tion upon the poor animal that lay struggling and bleed¬ 
ing at my feet. His very size and importance, which 
had before inspired me with eagerness, now increased 
my compunction. It seemed as if I had inflicted pain in 
proportion to the bulk of my victim, and as if there were 
a hundred-fold greater waste of life than there would 
have been in the destruction of an animal of inferior size. 

To add to these after-qualms of conscience, the poor 
animal lingered in his agony. He had evidently received 
a mortal wound, but death might be long in coming. It 
would not do to leave him here to be torn piecemeal, 
while yet alive, by the wolves that had already snuffed 
his blood, and were skulking and howling at a distance, 
and waiting for my departure ; and by the ravens that 
were flapping about, croaking dismally in the air. It 
became now an act of mercy to give him his quietus, and 
put him out of his misery. I primed one of the pistols, 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


209 


therefore, and advanced close up to the buffalo. To 
inflict a wound thus in cold blood, I found a totally dif¬ 
ferent thing from firing in the heat of the chase. Taking 
aim, however, just behind the fore-shoulder, my pistol 
for once proved true ; the ball must have passed through 
the heart, for the animal gave one convulsive throe and 
expired. 

While I stood meditating and moralizing over the 
wreck I had so wantonly produced, with my horse graz¬ 
ing near me, I was rejoined by my fellow-sportsman the 
Virtuoso, who, being a man of universal adroitness, and 
withal more experienced and hardened in the gentle art 
of “ venerie,” soon managed to carve out the tongue of 
the buffalo, and delivered it to me to bear back to the 
mmp as a trophy. 

14 


CHAPTER XXX. 


A COMRADE LOST.—A SEARCH FOR THE CAMP.—THE COMMISSIONER, THE WILD 
HORSE, AND THE BUFFALO.—A WOLF SERENADE. 



|UR solicitude was now awakened for the young 
Count. With his usual eagerness and impet¬ 
uosity he had persisted in urging his jaded 


horse in pursuit of the herd, unwilling to return without 
having likewise killed a buffalo. In this way he had 
kept on following them, hither and thither, and occasion¬ 
ally firing an ineffectual shot, until by degrees horseman 
and herd became indistinct in the distance, and at length 
swelling ground and strips of trees and thickets hid them 
entirely from sight. 

By the time my friend, the amateur, joined me, the 
young Count had been long lost to view. We held a con¬ 
sultation on the matter. Evening was drawing on. Were 
we to pursue him, it would be dark before we should 
overtake him, granting we did not entirely lose trace of 
him in the gloom. We should then be too much bewil¬ 
dered to find our way back to the encampment; even 
now, our return would be difficult. We determined, 
therefore, to hasten to the camp as speedily as possible, 

210 






A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


211 


and send out our half-breeds, and some of the veteran 
hunters skilled in cruising about the prairies, to search 
for our companion. 

We accordingly set forward in what we supposed to be 
the direction of the camp. Our weary horses could 
hardly be urged beyond a walk. The twilight thickened 
upon us; the landscape grew gradually indistinct; we 
tried in vain to recognize various landmarks which we 
had noted in the morning. The features of the prairies 
are so similar as to baffle the eye of any but an Indian, 
or a practised woodman. At length night closed in. 
We hoped to see the distant glare of camp-fires; we 
listened to catch the sound of the bells about the necks 
of the grazing horses. Once or twice we thought we 
distinguished them; we were mistaken. Nothing was 
to be heard but a monotonous concert of insects, with 
now and then the dismal howl of wolves mingling with 
the night breeze. We began to think of halting for the 
night, and bivouacking under the lee of some thicket. 
We had implements to strike alight; there was plenty 
jf firewood at hand, and the tongues of our buffaloes 
would furnish us with a repast. 

Just as we were preparing to dismount, we heard the 
report of a rifle, and, shortly after, the notes of the 
bugle, calling up the night-guard. Pushing forward in 
that direction, the camp-fires soon broke on our sight, 
gleaming at a distance from among the thick groves of 
an alluvial bottom. 


212 


CRAYON MISCELLANY 


As we entered the camp, we found it a scene of rude 
hunters’ revelry and wassail. There had been a grand 
day’s sport, in which all had taken a part. Eight buf¬ 
faloes had been killed; roaring fires were blazing on 
every side; all hands were feasting upon roasted joints, 
broiled marrow-bones, and the juicy hump, far-famed 
among the epicures of the prairies. Right glad were we 
to dismount and partake of the sturdy cheer, for we had 
been on our weary horses since morning, without tasting 
food. 

As to our worthy friend, the Commissioner, with whom 
we had parted company at the outset of this eventful 
day, we found him lying in a corner of the tent, much the 
worse for wear, in the course of a successful hunting-match. 

It seems that our man Beatte, in his zeal to give the 
Commissioner an opportunity of distinguishing himself, 
and gratifying his hunting propensities, had mounted 
him upon his half-wild horse, and started him in pursuit 
of a huge buffalo bull that had already been frightened 
by the hunters. The horse, which was fearless as his 
owner, and, like him, had a considerable spice of devil 
in his composition, and who, beside, had been made 
familiar with the game, no sooner came in sight and 
scent of the buffalo than he set off full speed, bearing the 
involuntary hunter hither and thither, and whither he 
would not—up-hill and down-hill—leaping pools and 
brooks—dashing through glens and gullies, until he came 
up with the game. Instead of sheering off, he crowded 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


213 


upon the buffalo. The Commissioner, almost in self- 
defence, discharged both barrels of a double-barrelled 
gun into the enemy. The broadside took effect, but was 
not mortal. The buffalo turned furiously upon his pur¬ 
suer : the horse, as he had been taught by his owner, 
wheeled off. The buffalo plunged after him. The wor¬ 
thy Commissioner, in great extremity, drew his sole pis¬ 
tol from his holster, fired it off as a stern-chaser, shot the 
buffalo full in the breast, and brought him lumbering 
forward to the earth. 

The Commissioner returned to camp, lauded on all 
sides for his signal exploit, but grievously battered and 
wayworn. He had been a hard rider per force, and a 
victor in spite of himself. He turned a deaf ear to all 
compliments and congratulations, had but little stom¬ 
ach for the hunter’s fare placed before him, and soon 
retreated to stretch his limbs in the tent, declaring that 
nothing should tempt him again to mount that half-devil 
Indian horse, and that he had enough of buffalo hunting 
for the rest of his life. 

It was too dark now to send any one in search of the 
young Count. Guns, however, were fired, and the bugle 
sounded from time to time, to guide him to the camp, if 
by chance he should straggle within hearing; but the 
night advanced without his making his appearance. 
There was not a star visible to guide him, and we con¬ 
cluded that, wherever he was, he would give up wander¬ 
ing in the dark, and bivouac until daybreak. 


214 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


It was a raw, overcast night. The carcasses of the 
buffaloes killed in the vicinity of the camp had drawn 
about it an unusual number of wolves, who kept up the 
most forlorn concert of whining yells, prolonged into dis¬ 
mal cadences and inflections, literally converting the sur¬ 
rounding waste into a howling wilderness. Nothing is 
more melancholy than the midnight howl of a wolf on a 
prairie. What rendered the gloom and wildness of the 
night and the savage concert of the neighboring waste 
the more dreary to us, was the idea of the lonely and 
exposed situation of our young and inexperienced com¬ 
rade. We trusted, however, that on the return of day¬ 
light he would find his way back to the camp, and then 
all the events of the night would be remembered only as 
so many savory gratifications of his passion for adven¬ 
ture. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


A HUNT FOR A LOST COMRADE. 


HE morning dawned, and an hour or two passed 
without any tidings of the Count. We began 
to feel uneasiness, lest, having no compass to 
aid him, he might perplex himself and wander in some 
opposite direction. Stragglers are thus often lost for 
days. What made us the more anxious about him was, 
that he had no provisions with him, was totally unversed 
in “ wood-craft,” and liable to fall into the hands of some 
lurking or straggling party of savages. 

As soon as our people, therefore, had made their break¬ 
fast, we beat up for volunteers for a cruise in search of 
the Count. A dozen of the rangers, mounted on some 
of the best and freshest horses, and armed with rifles, 
were soon ready to start; our half-breeds Beatte and 
Antoine also, with our little mongrel Frenchman, were 
zealous in the cause ; so Mr. L. and myself taking the 
lead, to show the way to the scene of our little hunt, 
where we had parted company with the Count, we all 
set out across the prairie. A ride of a couple of miles 
brought us to the carcasses of the two buffaloes we had 

215 






216 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


killed. A legion of ravenous wolves were already gorg¬ 
ing upon them. At our approach they reluctantly drew 
off, skulking with a caitiff look to the distance of a few 
hundred yards, and there awaiting our departure, that 
they might return to their banquet. 

I conducted Beatte and Antoine to the spot whence 
the young Count had continued the chase alone. It was 
like putting hounds upon the scent. They immediately 
distinguished the track of his horse amidst the tramp- 
ings of the buffaloes, and set off at a round pace, follow¬ 
ing with the eye in nearly a straight course, for upwards 
of a mile, when they came to where the herd had divided 
and run hither and thither about a meadow. Here the 
track of the horse’s hoofs wandered and doubled and 
often crossed each other; our half-breeds were like 
hounds at fault. While we were at a halt, waiting until 
they should unravel the maze, Beatte suddenly gave a 
short Indian whoop, or rather yelp, and pointed to a dis¬ 
tant hill. On regarding it attentively, we perceived a 
horseman on the summit. “It is the Count!” cried 
Beatte, and set off at full gallop, followed by the whole 
company. In a few moments he checked his horse. 
Another figure on horseback had appeared on the brow 
of the hill. This completely altered the case. The 
Count had wandered off alone ; no other person had been 
missing from the camp. If one of these horsemen were 
indeed the Count, the other must be an Indian ; if an In¬ 
dian, in all probability a Pawnee. Perhaps they were 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


217 


both Indians; scouts of some party lurking in the vicin¬ 
ity. While these and other suggestions were hastily dis¬ 
cussed, the two horsemen glided down from the profile of 
the hill, and we lost sight of them. One of the rangers 
suggested that there might be a straggling party of Paw¬ 
nees behind the hill, and that the Count might have 
fallen into their hands. The idea had an electric effect 
upon the little troop. In an instant every horse was at 
full speed, the half-breeds leading the way; the young 
rangers as they rode set up wild yelps of exultation at 
the thought of having a brush with the Indians. A 
neck-or-nothing gallop brought us to the skirts of the 
hill, and revealed our mistake. In a ravine we found the 
two horsemen standing by the carcass of a buffalo which 
they had killed. They proved to be two rangers, who, 
unperceived, had left the camp a little before us, and 
had come here in a direct line, while we had made a 
wide circuit about the prairie. 

This episode being at an end, and the sudden excite¬ 
ment being over, we slowly and coolly retraced our steps 
to the meadow, but it was some time before our half- 
breeds could again get on the track of the Count. Hav¬ 
ing at length found it, they succeeded in following it 
through all its doublings, until they came to where it 
was no longer mingled with the tramp of buffaloes, but 
became single and separate, wandering here and there 
about the prairies, but always tending in a direction 
opposite to that of the camp. Here the Count had evi- 


218 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


dently given up the pursuit of the herd, and had endeav¬ 
ored to find his way to the encampment, but had become 
bewildered as the evening shades thickened around him, 
and had completely mistaken the points of the compass. 

In all jhis quest our half-breeds displayed that quick¬ 
ness of eye, in following up a track, for which Indians 
are so noted. Beatte, especially, was as stanch as a 
veteran hound. Sometimes he would keep forward on 
an easy trot, his eyes fixed on the ground a little ahead 
of his horse, clearly distinguishing prints in the herbage 
which to me were invisible, excepting on the closest in¬ 
spection. Sometimes he would pull up and walk his horse 
slowly, regarding the ground intensely, where to my eye 
nothing was apparent. Then he would dismount, lead 
his horse by the bridle, and advance cautiously step by 
step, with his face bent towards the earth, just catching, 
here and there, a casual indication of the vaguest kind to 
guide him onward. In some places where the soil was 
hard, and the grass withered, he would lose the track en¬ 
tirely, and wander backwards and forwards, and right and 
left, in search of it; returning occasionally to the place 
where he had lost sight of it, to take a new departure. If 
this failed, he would examine the banks of the neighbor¬ 
ing streams, or the sandy bottoms of the ravines, in hopes 
of finding tracks where the Count had crossed. When 
he again came upon the track, he would remount his 
horse, and resume his onward course. At length, after 
mossing a stream, in the crumbling banks of which the 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


219 


hoofs of the horse were deeply dented, we came upon a 
high dry prairie, where our half-breeds were completely 
baffled. Not a footprint was to be discerned, though they 
searched in every direction; and Beatte at length coming 
to a pause, shook his head despondingly. 

Just then a small herd of deer, roused from a neigh¬ 
boring ravine, came bounding by us. Beatte sprang from 
his horse, levelled his rifle, and wounded one slightly, 
but without bringing it to the ground. The report of 
the rifle was almost immediately followed by a long 
halloo from a distance. We looked around, but could 
see nothing. Another long halloo was heard, and at 
length a horseman was descried, emerging out of a skirt 
of forest. A single glance showed him to be the young 
Count; there was a universal shout and scamper, every 
one setting off full gallop to greet him. It was a joy¬ 
ful meeting to both parties, for much anxiety had beeE 
felt by us all on account of his youth and inexperience, 
and for his part, with all his love of adventure, he seemed 
right glad to be once more among his friends. 

As we supposed, he had completely mistaken his 
course on the preceding evening, and had wandered 
about until dark, when he thought of bivouacking. The 
night was cold, yet he feared to make a fire, lest it might 
betray him to some lurking party of Indians. Hobbling 
his horse with his pocket-handkerchief, and leaving him 
to graze on the margin of the prairie, he clambered into 
a tree, fixed his saddle in the fork of the branches, and 


220 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


placing himself securely with his back against the trunk, 
prepared to pass a dreary and anxious night, regaled 
occasionally with the howlings of the wolves. He was 
agreeably disappointed. The fatigue of the day soon 
brought on a sound sleep; he had delightful dreams 
about his home in Switzerland; nor did he wake until 
it was broad daylight. 

He then descended from his roosting-place, mounted 
his horse, and rode to the naked summit of a hill, whence 
he beheld a trackless wilderness around him, but, at no 
great distance, the Grand Canadian, winding its way be¬ 
tween borders of forest land. The sight of this river 
consoled him with the idea that, should he fail in finding 
his way back to the camp, or in being found by some 
party of his comrades, he might follow the course of the 
stream, which could not fail to conduct him to some 
frontier post, or Indian hamlet. So closed the events of 
our haphazard buffalo hunt. 


CHAPTER XXXIL 


A REPUBLIC OP PRAIRIE-DOGS. 

* 

N returning from our expedition in quest of the 
young Count, I learned that a burrow, or vil¬ 
lage, as it is termed, of prairie-dogs had been 
discovered on the level summit of a hill, about a mile 
from the camp. Having heard much of the habits and 
peculiarities of these little animals, I determined to pay 
a visit to the community. The prairie-dog is, in fact, 
one of the curiosities of the Far West, about which trav¬ 
ellers delight to tell marvellous tales, endowing him at 
times with something of the politic and social habits of a 
rational being, and giving him systems of civil govern¬ 
ment and domestic economy almost equal to what they 
used to bestow upon the beaver. 

The prairie-dog is an animal of the coney kind, and 
about the size of a rabbit. He is of a sprightly mercurial 
nature; quick, sensitive, and somewhat petulant. He is 
very gregarious, living in large communities, sometimes 
of several acres in extent, where innumerable little heaps 
of earth show the entrances to the subterranean cells of 
the inhabitants, and the well beaten tracks, like lanes 

221 





222 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


and streets, show their mobility and restlessness. Ac¬ 
cording to the accounts given of them, they would seem 
to be continually full of sport, business, and public 
affairs; whisking about hither and thither, as if on gos¬ 
siping visits to each other’s houses, or congregating in 
the cool of the evening, or after a shower, and gambol¬ 
ling together in the open air. Sometimes, especially 
when the moon shines, they pass half the night in 
revelry, barking or yelping with short, quick, yet weak 
tones, like those of very young puppies. While in the 
height of their playfulness and clamor, however, should 
there be the least alarm, they all vanish into their cells 
in an instant, and the village remains blank and silent. 
In case they are hard pressed by their pursuers, without 
any hope of escape, they will assume a pugnacious air, 
and a most whimsical look of impotent wrath and defi¬ 
ance. 

The prairie-dogs are not permitted to remain sole and 
undisturbed inhabitants of their own homes. Owls and. 
rattlesnakes are said to take up their abodes with them; 
but whether as invited guests or unwelcome intruders, is 
a matter of controversy. The owls are of a peculiar kind, 
and would seem to partake of the character of the hawk; 
for they are taller and more erect on their legs, more 
alert in their looks and rapid in their flight than ordi¬ 
nary owls, and do not confine their excursions to the 
night, but sally forth in broad day. 

Some say that they only inhabit cells which the prai* 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


223 


rie-dogs have deserted, and suffered to go to ruin, in con¬ 
sequence of the death in them of some relative; for they 
would make out this little animal to be endowed with 
keen sensibilities, that will not permit it to remain in the 
dwelling where it has witnessed the death of a friend. 
Other fanciful speculators represent the owl as a kind of 
housekeeper to the prairie-dog; and, from having a note 
very similar, insinuate that it acts, in a manner, as family 
preceptor, and teaches the young litter to bark. 

As to the rattlesnake, nothing satisfactory has been 
ascertained of the part he plays in this most interesting 
household, though he is considered as little better than a 
sycophant and sharper, that winds himself into the con¬ 
cerns of the honest, credulous little dog, and takes him 
in most sadly. Certain it is, if he acts as toad-eater, he 
occasionally solaces himself with more than the usual 
perquisites of his order, as he is now and then detected 
with one of the younger members of the family in his 
maw. 

Such are a few of the particulars that I could gather 
about the domestic economy of this little inhabitant of 
the prairies, who, with his pigmy republic, appears to be 
a subject of much whimsical speculation and burlesque 
remarks, among the hunters of the Far West. 

It was towards evening that I set out with a compan¬ 
ion, to visit the village in question. Unluckily, it had 
been invaded in the course of the day by some of the 
rangers, who had shot two or three of its inhabitants. 


224 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


and thrown the whole sensitive community in confusion. 
As we approached, we could perceive numbers of the 
inhabitants seated at the entrances of their cells, while 
sentinels seemed to have been posted on the outskirts, to 
keep a look-out. At sight of us, the picket guards scam¬ 
pered in and gave the alarm; whereupon every inhabit¬ 
ant gave a short yelp, or bark, and dived into his hole, 
his heels twinkling in the air as if he had thrown a 
somerset. 

We traversed the whole village, or republic, which 
covered an area of about thirty acres; but not a whisker 
of an inhabitant was to be seen. We probed their cells 
as far as the ramrods of our rifles would reach, but could 
unearth neither dog, nor owl, nor rattlesnake. Moving 
quietly to a little distance, we lay down upon the ground 
and watched for a long time, silent and motionless. By- 
and-by a cautious old burgher would slowly put forth the 
end of his nose, but instantly draw it in again. Another, 
at a greater distance, would emerge entirely; but, catch¬ 
ing a glance of us, would throw a somerset, and plunge 
back again into his hole. At length, some who resided 
on the opposite side of the village, taking courage from 
the continued stillness, would steal forth, and hurry off 
to a distant hole, the residence possibly of some family 
connection, or gossiping friend, about whose safety they 
were solicitous, or with whom they wished to compare 
notes about the late occurrences. 

Others, still more bold, assembled in little knots, in the 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


225 


streets and public places, as if to discuss the recent out¬ 
rages offered to the commonwealth, and the atrocious 
murders of their fellow-burghers. 

We rose from the ground and moved forward, to take 
a nearer view of these public proceedings, when, yelp! 
yelp! yelp !—there was a shrill alarm passed from mouth 
to mouth; the meetings suddenly dispersed; feet twin¬ 
kled in the air in every direction; and in an instant all 
had vanished into the earth. 

The dusk of the evening put an end to our observa¬ 
tions, but the train of whimsical comparisons produced 
in my brain by the moral attributes which I had heard 
given to these little politic animals, still continued after 
my return to camp ; and late in the night, as I lay awake 
after all the camp was asleep, and heard, in the stillness 
of the hour, a faint clamor of shrill voices from the dis¬ 
tant village, I could not help picturing to myself the in¬ 
habitants gathered together in noisy assemblage, and 
windy debate, to devise plans for the public safety, and 
to vindicate the invaded rights and insulted dignity of 
the republic. 

19 


CHAPTER XXXHL 


A COUNCIL IN THE CAMP.—REASONS FOR FACING HOMEWARDS.—HORSES LOST, 
—DEPARTURE WITH A DETACHMENT ON THE HOMEWARD ROUTE.—SWAMP. 
—WILD HORSE.—CAMP-SCENE BY NIGHT.—THE OWL, HARBINGER OF DAWN. 



HILE breakfast was preparing, a council was 
held as to our future movements. Symptoms 
of discontent had appeared, for a day or two 
past, among the rangers, most of whom, unaccustomed 
to the life of the prairies, had become impatient of its 
privations, as well as the restraints of the camp. The 
want of bread had been felt severely, and they were 
wearied with constant travel. In fact, the novelty and 
excitement of the expedition were at an end. They had 
hunted the deer, the bear, the elk, the buffalo, and the 
wild horse, and had no further object of leading interest 
to look forward to. A general inclination prevailed, 
therefore, to turn homewards. 

Grave reasons disposed the Captain and his officers to 
adopt this resolution. Our horses were generally much 
jaded by the fatigues of travelling and hunting, and had 
fallen away sadly for want of good pasturage, and from 
being tethered at night, to protect them from Indian 







A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


227 


depredations. The late rains, too, seemed to have washed 
away the nourishment from the scanty herbage that re¬ 
mained ; and since our encampment during the storm our 
horses had lost flesh and strength rapidly. With every 
possible care, horses accustomed to grain and to the 
regular and plentiful nourishment of the stable and the 
farm, lose heart and condition in travelling on the prai¬ 
ries. In all expeditions of the kind we were engaged in, 
the hardy Indian horses, which are generally mustangs, 
or a cross of the wild breed, are to be preferred. They 
can stand all fatigues, hardships, and privations, and 
thrive on the grasses and wild herbage of the plains. 

Our men, too, had acted with little forethought; gal¬ 
loping off, whenever they had a chance, after the game 
that we encountered while on the march. In this way 
they had strained and wearied their horses, instead of 
husbanding their strength and spirits. On a tour of the 
kind, horses should as seldom as possible be put off of 
a quiet walk; and the average day’s journey should not 
exceed ten miles. 

We had hoped, by pushing forward, to reach the bot¬ 
toms of the Red River, which abound with young cane, 
a most nourishing forage for cattle at this season of the 
year. It would now take us several days to arrive there, 
and in the meantime many of our horses would probably 
give out. It was the time, too, when the hunting parties 
of Indians set fire to the prairies ; the herbage, through¬ 
out this part of the country, was in that parched state 


228 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


favorable to combustion, and there was daily more and 
more risk that the prairies between us and the fort 
would be set on fire by some of the return parties of 
Osages, and a scorched desert left for us to traverse. In 
a word, we had started too late in the season, or loitered 
too much in the early part of our march, to accomplish 
our originally intended tour; and there was imminent 
hazard, if we continued on, that we should lose the 
greater part of our horses; and, besides suffering various 
other inconveniences, be obliged to return on foot. It 
was determined, therefore, to give up all further pro¬ 
gress, and, turning our faces to the southeast, to make 
the best of our way back to Fort Gibson. 

This resolution being taken, there was an immediate 
eagerness to put it into operation. Several horses, how¬ 
ever, were missing, and among others those of the Cap¬ 
tain and the Surgeon. Persons had gone in search of 
them, but the morning advanced without any tidings of 
them. Our party, in the meantime, being all ready for a 
march, the Commissioner determined to set off in the 
advance, with his original escort of a lieutenant and 
fourteen rangers, leaving the Captain to come on at his 
convenience, with the main body. At ten o’clock we 
accordingly started, under the guidance of Beatte, who 
had hunted over this part of the country, and knew the 
direct route to the garrison. 

For some distance we skirted the prairie, keeping a 
southeast direction; and in the course of our ride we 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


229 


saw a variety of wild animals, deer, white and black 
wolves, buffaloes, and wild horses. To the latter our 
half-breeds and Tonish gave ineffectual chase, only serv¬ 
ing to add to the weariness of their already jaded steeds. 
Indeed it is rarely that any but the weaker and least 
fleet of the wild horses are taken in these hard racings; 
while the horse of the huntsman is prone to be knocked 
up. The latter, in fact, risks a good horse to catch a 
bad one. On this occasion, Tonish, who was a perfect 
imp on horseback, and noted for ruining every animal he 
bestrode, succeeded in laming and almost disabling the 
powerful gray on which we had mounted him at the out¬ 
set of our tour. 

After proceeding a few miles, we left the prairie, and 
struck to the east, taking what Beatte pronounced an old 
Osage war-track. This led us through a rugged tract of 
country, overgrown with scrubbed forests and entangled 
thickets, and intersected by deep ravines and brisk-run¬ 
ning streams, the sources of Little Biver. About three 
o’clock, we encamped by some pools of water in a small 
valley, having come about fourteen miles. We had 
brought on a supply of provisions from our last camp, 
and supped heartily upon stewed buffalo meat, roasted 
venison, beignets, or fritters of flour fried in bear’s lard, 
and tea made of a species of the golden-rod, which we 
had found, throughout our whole route, almost as grate¬ 
ful a beverage as coffee. Indeed our coffee, which, as 
long as it held out, had been served up with every meal, 


230 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


according to the custom of the West, was by no means a 
beverage to boast of. It was roasted in a frying-pan, 
without much care, pounded in a leathern bag with a 
round stone, and boiled in our prime and almost only 
kitchen utensil, the camp-kettle, in “branch” or brook 
water; which, on the prairies, is deeply colored by the 
soil, of which it always holds abundant particles in a 
state of solution and suspension. In fact, in the course 
of our tour, we had tasted the quality of every variety of 
soil, and the draughts of water we had taken might vie 
in diversity of color, if not of flavor, with the tinctures 
of an apothecary’s shop. Pure, limpid water is a rare 
luxury on the prairies, at least at this season of the year. 
Supper over, we placed sentinels about our scanty and 
diminished camp, spread our skins and blankets under 
the trees, now nearly destitute of foliage, and slept 
soundly until morning. 

We had a beautiful daybreak. The camp again re¬ 
sounded with cheerful voices; every one was animated 
with the thoughts of soon being at the fort, and revelling 
on bread and vegetables. Even our saturnine man, 
Beatte, seemed inspired on this occasion; and as he 
drove up the horses for the march, I heard him singing, 
in nasal tones, a most forlorn Indian ditty. All this 
transient gayety, however, soon died away amidst the 
fatigues of our march, which lay through the same kind 
of rough, hilly, thicketed country, as that of yesterday. 
In the course of the morning we arrived at the valley of 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


231 


the Little River, where it wound through a broad bottom 
of alluvial soil. At present it had overflowed its banks, 
and inundated a great part of the valley. The difficulty 
was to distinguish the stream from the broad sheets of 
water it had formed, and to find a place where it might 
be forded; for it was in general deep and miry, with 
abrupt crumbling banks. Under the pilotage of Beatte, 
therefore, we wandered for some time among the links 
made by this winding stream, in what appeared to us 
a trackless labyrinth of swamps, thickets, and standing 
pools. Sometimes our jaded horses dragged their limbs 
forward with the utmost difficulty, having to toil for a 
great distance, with the water up to the stirrups, and 
beset at the bottom with roots and creeping plants. 
Sometimes we had to force our way through dense thick¬ 
ets of brambles and grape-vines, which almost pulled 
us out of our saddles. In one place, one of the pack- 
horses sunk in the mire and fell on his side, so as to be 
extricated with great difficulty. Wherever the soil was 
bare, or there was a sandbank, we beheld innumerable 
tracks of bears, wolves, wild horses, turkeys, and water- 
fowl ; showing the abundant sport this valley might 
afford to the huntsman. Our men, however, were sated 
with hunting, and too weary to be excited by these signs, 
which in the outset of our tour would have put them in 
a fever of anticipation. Their only desire at present was 
to push on doggedly for the fortress. 

At length we succeeded in finding a fording-place, 


232 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


where we all crossed Little River, with the water and 
mire to the saddle-girths, and then halted for an hour 
and a half, to overhaul the wet baggage, and give the 
horses time to rest. 

On resuming our march, we came to a pleasant little 
meadow, surrounded by groves of elms and cotton-wood 
trees, in the midst of which was a fine black horse graz¬ 
ing. Beatte, who was in the advance, beckoned us to 
halt, and, being mounted on a mare, approached the 
horse gently, step by step, imitating the whinny of the 
animal with admirable exactness. The noble courser of 
the prairie gazed for a time, snuffed the air, neighed, 
pricked up his ears, and pranced round and round the 
mare in gallant style, but kept at too great a distance for 
Beatte to throw the lariat. He was a magnificent object, 
in all the pride and glory of his nature. It was admi¬ 
rable to see the lofty and airy carriage of his head; the 
freedom of every movement; the elasticity with which 
he trod the meadow. Finding it impossible to get within 
noosing distance, and seeing that the horse was reced¬ 
ing and growing alarmed, Beatte slid down from his sad¬ 
dle, levelled his rifle across the back of his mare, and 
took aim, with the evident intention of creasing him. I 
felt a throb of anxiety for the safety of the noble animal, 
and called out to Beatte to desist. It was too late; he 
pulled the trigger as I spoke; luckily he did not shoot 
with his usual accuracy, and I had the satisfaction to see 
the coal-black steed dash off unharmed into the forest. 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


233 


On leaving this valley, we ascended among broken 
hills and rugged, ragged forests, equally harassing to 
horse and rider. The ravines, too, were of red clay, and 
often so steep that, in descending, the horses would put 
their feet together and fairly slide down, and then scram¬ 
ble up the opposite side like cats. Here and there 
among the thickets in the valleys, we met with sloes and 
persimmon, and the eagerness with which our men broke 
from the line of march, and ran to gather these poor 
fruits, showed how much they craved some vegetable con¬ 
diment, after living so long exclusively on animal food. 

About half-past three we encamped near a brook in a 
meadow, where there was some scanty herbage for our 
half-famished horses. As Beatte had killed a fat doe in 
the course of the day, and one of our company a fine 
turkey, we did not lack for provisions. 

It was a splendid autumnal evening. The horizon, 
after sunset, was of a clear apple-green, rising into a 
delicate lake which gradually lost itself in a deep purple 
blue. One narrow streak of cloud, of a mahogany color, 
edged with amber and gold, floated in the west, and just 
beneath it was the evening star, shining with the pure 
brilliancy of a diamond. In unison with this scene there 
was an evening concert of insects of various kinds, all 
blended and harmonized into one sober and somewhat 
melancholy note, which I have always found to have a 
soothing effect upon the mind, disposing it to quiet 
musings. 


234 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


The night that succeeded was calm and beautiful. 
There was a faint light from the moon, now in its second 
quarter, and after it had set, a fine starlight, with shoot¬ 
ing meteors. The wearied rangers, after a little mur¬ 
muring conversation round their fires, sank to rest at an 
early hour, and I seemed to have the whole scene to my¬ 
self. It is delightful, in thus bivouacking on the prairies, 
to lie awake and gaze at the stars; it is like watching 
them from the deck of a ship at sea, when at one view we 
have the whole cope of heaven. One realizes, in such 
lonely scenes, that companionship with these beautiful 
luminaries which made astronomers of the eastern shep¬ 
herds, as they watched their flocks by night. How often, 
while contemplating their mild and benignant radiance, I 
have called to mind the exquisite text of Job,—“ Canst 
thou bind the secret influences of the Pleiades, or loose 
the bands of Orion ? ” I do not know why it was, but I 
felt this night unusually affected by the solemn magnifi¬ 
cence of the firmament; and seemed, as I lay thus under 
the open vault of heaven, to inhale with the pure un¬ 
tainted air an exhilarating buoyancy of spirit, and, as it 
were, an ecstasy of mind. I slept and waked alternately; 
and when I slept, my dreams partook of the happy tone 
of my waking reveries. Towards morning, one of the 
sentinels, the oldest man in the troop, came and took a 
seat near me : he was weary and sleepy, and impatient to 
be relieved. I found he had been gazing at the heavens 
also, but with different feelings. 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


235 


ce If the stars don’t deceive me,” said he, “ it is near 
daybreak.” 

“ There can be no doubt of that,” said Beatte, who lay 
close by. “I heard an owl just now.” 

“Does the owl, then, hoot towards daybreak?” asked I. 

“ Aye, sir, just as the cock crows.” 

This was a useful habitude of the bird of wisdom, of 
which I was not aware. Neither the stars nor owl de¬ 
ceived their votaries. In a short time there was a faint 
streak of light in the east. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


OLD CREEK ENCAMPMENT. — SCARCITY OF PROVISIONS. — BAD WEATHER.—' 
WEARY MARCHING.—A HUNTER’S BRIDGE. 



HE country through which we passed this morn¬ 
ing (Nov. 2), was less rugged, and of more 
agreeable aspect than that we had lately tra¬ 
versed. At eleven o’clock we came out upon an exten¬ 
sive prairie, and about six miles to our left beheld a 
long line of green forest, marking the course of the north 
fork of the Arkansas. On the edge of the prairie, and 
in a spacious grove of noble trees which overshadowed a 
small brook, were the traces of an old Creek hunting- 
camp. On the bark of the trees were rude deiineations 
of hunters and squaws, scrawled with charcoal; together 
with various signs and hieroglyphics, which our half- 
breeds interpreted as indicating that from this encamp¬ 
ment the hunters had returned home. 

In this beautiful camping-ground we made our mid¬ 
day halt. While reposing under the trees, we heard a 
shouting at no great distance, and presently the Captain 
and the main body of rangers, whom we had left behind 
two days since, emerged from the thickets, and crossing 









A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


237 


the brook, were joyfully welcomed into the camp. The 
Captain and the Doctor had been unsuccessful in the 
search after their horses, and were obliged to march for 
the greater part of the time on foot; yet they had come 
on with more than ordinary speed. 

We resumed our march about one o’clock, keeping 
easterly, and approaching the north fork obliquely; it 
was late before we found a good camping - place; the 
beds of the streams were dry, the prairies, too, had been 
burnt in various places, by Indian hunting-parties. At 
length we found water in a small alluvial bottom, where 
there was tolerable pasturage. 

On the following morning there were flashes of light¬ 
ning in the east, with low, rumbling thunder, and clouds 
began to gather about the horizon. Beatte prognosti¬ 
cated rain, and that the wind would veer to the north. 
In the course of our march, a flock of brant were seen 
overhead, flying from the north. “ There comes the 
wind! ” said Beatte; and, in fact, it began to blow from 
that quarter almost immediately, with occasional flurries 
of rain. About half-past nine o’clock, we forded the 
north fork of the Canadian, and encamped about one, 
that our hunters might have time to beat up the neigh¬ 
borhood for game; for a serious scarcity began to pre¬ 
vail in the camp. Most of the rangers were young, 
heedless, and inexperienced, and could not be prevail¬ 
ed upon, while provisions abounded, to provide for the 
future, by jerking meat, or carrying away any on their 


238 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


horses. On leaving an encampment, they would leave 
quantities of meat lying about, trusting to Providence 
and their rifles for a future supply. The consequence 
was, that any temporary scarcity of game, or ill luck in 
hunting, produced almost a famine in the camp. In the 
present instance, they had left loads of buffalo meat at 
the camp on the great prairie; and having ever since 
been on a forced march, leaving no time for hunting, 
they were now destitute of supplies, and pinched with 
hunger. Some had not eaten anything since the morn¬ 
ing of the preceding day. Nothing would have per¬ 
suaded them, when revelling in the abundance of the 
buffalo encampment, that they would so soon be in such 
famishing plight. 

The hunters returned with indifferent success. The 
game had been frightened away from this part of the 
country by Indian hunting-parties which had preceded 
us. Ten or a dozen wild turkeys were brought in, but 
not a deer had been seen. The rangers began to think 
turkeys and even prairie-hens deserving of attention,— 
game which they had hitherto considered unworthy of 
their rifles. 

The night was cold and windy, with occasional sprink¬ 
ling, of rain; but we had roaring fires to keep us com¬ 
fortable. In the night a flight of wild geese passed over 
the camp, making a great cackling in the air,—symptoms 
of approaching winter. 

We set forward at an early hour the next morning, in 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


239 


a northeast course, and came upon the trace of a party 
of Creek Indians, which enabled our poor horses to 
travel with more ease. We entered upon a fine cham¬ 
paign country. From a rising ground we had a noble 
prospect, over extensive prairies, finely diversified by 
groves and tracts of woodland, and bounded by long 
lines of distant hills, all clothed with the rich mellow 
tints of autumn. Game, too, was more plenty. A fine 
buck sprang up from among the herbage on our right, 
and dashed off at full speed; but a young ranger by the 
name of Childers, who was on foot, levelled his rifle, 
discharged a ball that broke the neck of the bounding 
deer, and sent him tumbling head-over-heels forward. 
Another buck and a doe, beside several turkeys, were 
killed before we came to a halt, so that the hungry 
mouths of the troop were once more supplied. 

About three o’clock we encamped in a grove, after a 
forced march of twenty-five miles, that had proved a 
hard trial to the horses. For a long time after the head 
of the line had encamped, the rest kept straggling in, 
two and three at a time; one of our pack-horses had 
given out, about nine miles back, and a pony belonging 
to Beatte, shortly after. Many of the other horses 
looked so gaunt and feeble, that doubts were entertained 
of their being able to reach the fort. In the night there 
was heavy rain, and the morning dawned cloudy and 
dismal. The camp resounded, however, with something 
of its former gayety. The rangers had supped well, and 


240 


CRA TON MISCELLANY. 


were renovated in spirits, anticipating a speedy arrival 
at the garrison. Before we set forward on our march, 
Beatte returned, and brought his pony to the camp with 
great difficulty. The pack-horse, however, was com¬ 
pletely knocked up, and had to be abandoned. The wild 
mare, too, had cast her foal, through exhaustion, and 
was not in a state to go forward. She and the pony, 
therefore, were left at this encampment, where there was 
water and good pasturage, and where there would be a 
chance of their reviving, and being afterwards sought out 
and brought to the garrison. 

We set off about eight o’clock, and had a day of weary 
and harassing travel; part of the time over rough hills, 
and part over rolling prairies. The rain had rendered 
the soil slippery and plashy, so as to afford unsteady 
foothold. Some of the rangers dismounted, their horses 
having no longer strength to bear them. We made a 
halt in the course of the morning, but the horses were 
too tired to graze. Several of them laid down, and there 
was some difficulty in getting them on their feet again. 
Our troop presented a forlorn appearance, straggling 
slowly along, in a broken and scattered line, that ex¬ 
tended over hill and dale, for three miles and upwards, 
in groups of three and four widely apart; some on horse¬ 
back, some on foot, with a few laggards far in the rear. 
About four o’clock we halted for the night in a spacious 
forest, beside a deep narrow river, called the Little North 
Fork, or Deep Creek. It was late before the main part 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


241 


of the troop straggled into the encampment, many of the 
horses having given out. As this stream was too deep to 
be forded, we waited until the next day to devise means 
to cross it; but our half-breeds swam the horses of our 
party to the other side in the evening, as they would 
have better pasturage, and the stream was evidently 
swelling. The night was cold and unruly; the wind 
sounding hoarsely through the forest and whirling about 
the dry leaves. We made long fires of great trunks of 
trees, which diffused something of consolation if not 
cheerfulness around. 

The next morning there was general permission given 
to hunt until twelve o’clock, the camp being destitute of 
provisions. The rich woody bottom in which we were 
encamped abounded with wild turkeys, of which a con¬ 
siderable number were killed. In the meantime, prep¬ 
arations were made for crossing the river, which had 
risen several feet during the night; and it was deter¬ 
mined to fell trees for the purpose, to serve as bridges. 

The Captain and Doctor, and one or two other leaders 
of the camp, versed in woodcraft, examined with learned 
eye the trees growing on the river-bank, until they 
singled out a couple of the largest size, and most suitable 
inclinations. The axe was then vigorously applied to 
their roots, in such a way as to insure their falling 
directly across the stream. As they did not reach to the 
opposite bank, it was necessary for some of the men to 
swim across and fell trees on the other side, to meet 
16 


242 


CRA TON MISCELLANY. 


them. They at length succeeded in making a precarious 
footway across the deep and rapid current, by which the 
baggage could be carried over; but it was necessary to 
grope our way, step by step, along the trunks and main 
branches of the trees, which for a part of the distance 
were completely submerged, so that we were to our 
waists in water. Most of the horses were then swum 
across, but some of them were too weak to brave the 
current, and evidently too much knocked up to bear any 
further travel. Twelve men, therefore, were left at the 
encampment to guard these horses, until by repose and 
good pasturage they should be sufficiently recovered to 
complete their journey ; and the Captain engaged to send 
the men a supply of flour and other necessaries, as soon 
as we should arrive at the Fort. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


A LOOK-OUT FOR LAND.—HARD TRAVELLING AND HUNGRY HALTING.— A 
FRONTIER FARM-HOUSE.—ARRIVAL AT THE GARRISON. 

T was a little after one o’clock when we again 
resumed our weary wayfaring. The residue of 
that day and the whole of the next were spent 
in toilsome travel. Part of the way was over stony hills, 
part across wide prairies, rendered spongy and miry by 
the recent rain, and cut up by brooks swollen into tor¬ 
rents. Our poor horses were so feeble, that it was with 
difficulty we could get them across the deep ravines and 
turbulent streams. In traversing the miry plains, they 
slipped and staggered at every step, and most of us were 
obliged to dismount and walk for the greater part of the 
way. Hunger prevailed throughout the troop; every 
one began to look anxious and haggard, and to feel the 
growing length of each additional mile. At one time, in 
crossing a hill, Beatte climbed a high tree commanding a 
wide prospect, and took a look-out, like a mariner from 
the mast-head at sea. He came down with cheering tid¬ 
ings. To the left he had beheld a line of forest stretch¬ 
ing across the country, which he knew to be the woody 

243 






244 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


border of the Arkansas ; and at a distance he had recog¬ 
nized certain landmarks, from which he concluded that 
we could not be above forty miles distant from the fort. 
It was like the welcome cry of land to tempest-tossed 
mariners. 

In fact we soon after saw smoke rising from a woody 
glen at a distance. It was supposed to be made by a 
hunting-party of Creek or Osage Indians from the neigh¬ 
borhood of the fort, and was joyfully hailed as a har¬ 
binger of man. It was now confidently hoped that we 
would soon arrive among the frontier hamlets of Creek 
Indians, which are scattered along the skirts of the un¬ 
inhabited wilderness; and our hungry rangers trudged 
forward with reviving spirit, regaling themselves with 
savory anticipations of farm-house luxuries, and enumer¬ 
ating every article of good cheer, until their mouths fairly 
watered at the shadowy feasts thus conjured up. 

A hungry night, however, closed in upon a toilsome 
day. We encamped on the border of one of the tribu¬ 
tary streams of the Arkansas, amidst the ruins of a 
stately grove that had been riven by a hurricane. The 
blast had torn its way through the forest in a narrow 
column, and its course was marked by enormous trees, 
shivered and splintered, and upturned, with their roots 
in the air: all lay in one direction, like so many brittle 
reeds broken and trodden down by the hunter. 

Here was fuel in abundance, without the labor of the 
axe : we had soon immense fires blazing and sparkling in 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES . 


245 


the frosty air, and lighting up the whole forest; but, 
alas! we had no meat to cook at them. The scarcity in 
the camp almost amounted to famine. Happy was he 
who had a morsel of jerked meat, or even the half-picked 
bones of a former repast. For our part, we were more 
lucky at our mess than our neighbors, one of our men 
having shot a turkey. We had no bread to eat with it, 
nor salt to season it withal. It was simply boiled in 
water; the latter was served up as soup; and we were 
fain to rub each morsel of the turkey on the empty salt- 
bag, in hopes some saline particle might remain to 
relieve its insipidity. 

The night was biting cold; the brilliant moonlight 
sparkled on the frosty crystals which covered every ob¬ 
ject around us. The water froze beside the skins on 
which we bivouacked, and in the morning I found the 
blanket in which I was wrapped covered with a hoar¬ 
frost ; yet I had never slept more comfortably. 

After a shadow of a breakfast, consisting of turkey- 
bones and a cup of coffee without sugar, we decamped at 
an early hour; for hunger is a sharp quickener on a jour¬ 
ney. The prairies were all gemmed with frost, that 
covered the tall weeds and glistened in the sun. We saw 
great flights of prairie-hens, or grouse, that hovered from 
tree to tree, or sat in rows along the naked branches, 
waiting until the sun should melt the frost from the 
weeds and herbage. Our rangers no longer despised 
such humble game, but turned from the ranks in pursuit 


246 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


of a prairie-hen as eagerly as they formerly would go in 
pursuit of a deer. 

Every one now pushed forward, anxious to arrive at 
some human habitation before night. The poor horses 
were urged beyond their strength, in the thought of soon 
being able to indemnify them for present toil by rest 
and ample provender. Still the distances seemed to 
stretch out more than ever, and the blue hills, pointed 
out as landmarks on the horizon, to recede as we ad¬ 
vanced. Every step became a labor; every now and 
then a miserable horse would give out and lie down. 
His owner would raise him by main strength, force him 
forward to the margin of some stream, where there 
might be a scanty border of herbage, and then abandon 
him to his fate. Among those that were thus left on the 
way, was one of the led horses of the Count; a prime 
hunter, that had taken the lead of everything in the 
chase of the wild horses. It was intended, however, as 
soon as we should arrive at the fort, to send out a party 
provided with corn, to bring in such of the horses as 
should survive. ' 

In the course of the morning we came upon Indian 
tracks, crossing each other in various directions, a proof 
that we must be in the neighborhood of human habita¬ 
tions. At length, on passing through a skirt of wood, 
we beheld two or three log houses, sheltered under lofty 
trees on the border of a prairie, the habitations of Creek 
Indians, who had small farms adjacent. Had they been 


A TOUR ON THE PRAIRIES. 


247 


sumptuous villas, abounding with the luxuries of civil¬ 
ization, they could not have been hailed with greater 
delight. 

Some of the rangers rode up to them in quest of food; 
the greater part, however, pushed forward in search of 
the habitation of a white settler, which we were told 
was at no great distance. The troop soon disappeared 
among the trees, and I followed slowly in their track; 
for my once fleet and generous steed faltered under me, 
and was just able to drag one foot after the other; yet I 
was too weary and exhausted to spare him. 

In this way we crept on, until, on turning a thick 
clump of trees, a frontier farm-house suddenly presented 
itself to view. It was a low tenement of logs, over¬ 
shadowed by great forest-trees, but it seemed as if a 
very region of Cocaigne prevailed around it. Here was 
a stable and barn, and granaries teeming with abun¬ 
dance, while legions of grunting swine, gobbling turkeys, 
cackling hens, and strutting roosters, swarmed about the 
farm-yard. 

My poor, jaded, and half-famished horse raised his 
head and pricked up his ears at the well-known sights 
and sounds. He gave a chuckling inward sound, some¬ 
thing like a dry laugh, whisked his tail, and made great 
leeway toward a corn-crib filled with golden ears of 
maize; and it was with some difficulty that I could con¬ 
trol his course, and steer him up to the door of the 
cabin. A single glance within was sufficient to raise 


248 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


every gastronomic faculty. There sat the Captain of the 
rangers and his officers, round a three-legged table, 
crowned by a broad and smoking dish of boiled beef and 
turnips. I sprang off my horse in an instant, cast him 
loose to make his way to the corn-crib, and entered this 
palace of plenty. A fat good-humored negress received 
me at the door. She was the mistress of the house, the 
spouse of the white man, who was absent. I hailed her 
as some swart fairy of the wild, that had suddenly con¬ 
jured up a banquet in the desert; and a banquet was it 
in good sooth. In a twinkling, she lugged from the fire 
a huge iron pot, that might have rivalled one of the 
famous flesh-pots of Egypt, or the witches’ caldron in 
Macbeth. Placing a brown earthen dish on the floor, 
she inclined the corpulent caldron on one side, and out 
leaped sundry great morsels of beef, with a regiment of 
turnips tumbling after them, and a rich cascade of broth 
overflowing the whole. This she handed me with an 
ivory smile that extended from ear to ear; apologizing 
for our humble fare, and the humble style in which it 
was served up. Humble fare! humble style! Boiled 
beef and turnips, and an earthen dish to eat them from! 
To think of apologizing for such a treat to a half-starved 
man from the prairies; and then such magnificent slices 
of bread and butter. Head of Apicius, what a banquet! 

“ The rage of hunger ” being appeased, I began to 
think of my horse. He, however, like an old cam¬ 
paigner, had taken good care of himself. I found him 


A TOUR ON TEE PRAIRIES. 


249 


paying assiduous attention to the crib of Indian corn, 
and dexterously drawing forth and munching the ears 
that protruded between the bars. It was with great 
regret that I interrupted his repast, which he abandoned 
with a heavy sigh, or rather a rumbling groan. I was 
anxious, however, to rejoin my travelling companions, 
who had passed by the farm-house without stopping, 
and proceeded to the banks of the Arkansas, being in 
hopes of arriving before night at the Osage Agency. 
Leaving the Captain and his troop, therefore, amidst 
the abundance of the farm, where they had determined 
to quarter themselves for the night, I bade adieu to our 
sable hostess, and again pushed forward. 

A ride of about a mile brought me to where my com¬ 
rades were waiting on the banks of the Arkansas, which 
here poured along between beautiful forests. A num¬ 
ber of Creek Indians, in their brightly colored dresses, 
looking like so many gay tropical birds, were busy aid¬ 
ing our men to transport the baggage across the river 
in a canoe. While this was doing, our horses had an¬ 
other regale from two great cribs heaped up with ears 
of Indian corn, which stood near the edge of the river. 
We had to keep a check upon the poor half-famished 
animals, lest they should injure themselves by their 
voracity. 

The baggage being all carried to the opposite bank, 
we embarked in the canoe, and swam our horses across 
the river. I was fearful lest, in their enfeebled state, 


250 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


they should not be able to stem the current; but their 
banquet of Indian corn had already infused fresh life 
and spirit into them, and it would appear as if they 
were cheered by the instinctive consciousness of their 
approach to home, where they would soon be at rest, 
and in plentiful quarters; for no sooner had we landed 
and resumed our route, than they set off on a hand- 
gallop, and continued so for a great part of seven miles 
that we had to ride through the woods. 

It was an early hour in the evening when we arrived 
at the Agency, on the banks of the Verdigris Kiver, 
whence we had set off about a month before. Here we 
passed the night comfortably quartered; yet, after hav¬ 
ing been accustomed to sleep in the open air, the con¬ 
finement of a chamber was, in some respects, irksome. 
The atmosphere seemed close, and destitute of fresh¬ 
ness ; and when I awoke in the night and gazed about 
me upon complete darkness, I missed the glorious com¬ 
panionship of the stars. 

The next morning, after breakfast, I again set forward, 
in company with the worthy Commissioner, for Fort 
Gibson, where we arrived much tattered, travel-stained, 
and weather-beaten, but in high health and spirits. 
And thus ended my foray into the Pawnee Hunting- 
Grounds. 


ABBOTSFORD. 











































Abbotsford. 


SIT down to perform my promise of giving 
IP* you an account of a visit made many years 
*-v since to Abbotsford. I hope, however, that 
you do not expect much from me, for the travelling 
notes taken at the time are so scanty and vague, and 
my memory so extremely fallacious, that I fear I shall 
disappoint you with the meagreness and crudeness of 
my details. 

Late in the evening of the 29th of August, 1817,1 ar¬ 
rived at the ancient little border-town of Selkirk, where 
I put up for the night. I had come down from Edin¬ 
burgh, partly to visit Melrose Abbey and its vicinity, 
but chiefly to get a sight of the “ mighty minstrel of the 
north.” I had a letter of introduction to him from 
Thomas Campbell the poet, and had reason to think, 
from the interest he had taken in some of my earlier 
scribblings, that a visit from me would not be deemed an 
intrusion. 

On the following morning, after an early breakfast, I 

253 





254 


CBA YON MISCELLANY. 


set off in a post-chaise for the Abbey. On the way 
thither I stopped at the gate of Abbotsford, and sent the 
postilion to the house with the letter of introduction and 
my card, on which I had written that I was on my way 
to the ruins of Melrose Abbey, and wished to know 
whether it would be agreeable to Mr. Scott (he had not 
yet been made a Baronet) to receive a visit from me in 
the course of the morning. 

While the postilion was on his errand, I had time to 
survey the mansion. It stood some short distance be¬ 
low the road, on the side of a hill sweeping down to 
the Tweed; and was as yet but a snug gentleman’s cot¬ 
tage, with something rural and picturesque in its ap¬ 
pearance. The whole front was overrun with evergreens, 
and immediately above the portal was a great pair 
of elk-horns, branching out from beneath the foliage, 
and giving the cottage the look of a hunting-lodge. 
The huge baronial pile, to which this modest man¬ 
sion in a manner gave birth, was just emerging into 
existence: part of the walls, surrounded by scaffolding, 
already had risen to the height of the cottage, and the 
courtyard in front was encumbered by masses of hewn 
stone. 

The noise of the chaise had disturbed the quiet of the 
establishment. Out sallied the warder of the castle, a 
black greyhound, and, leaping on one of the blocks of 
stone, began a furious barking. His alarum brought out 
the whole garrison of dogs,— 


ABBOTSFORD. 


255 


“Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree ; ” 

all open-mouthed and vociferous.-1 should correct 

my quotation;—not a cur was to be seen on the prem¬ 
ises : Scott was too true a sportsman, and had too high 
a veneration for pure blood, to tolerate a mongrel. 

In a little while the “ lord of the castle ” himself made 
his appearance. I knew him at once by the descriptions 
I had read and heard, and the likenesses that had been 
published of him. He was tall, and of a large and 
powerful frame. His dress was simple, and almost rus^ 
tic : an old green shooting-coat, with a dog-whistle at the 
button-hole, brown linen pantaloons, stout shoes that 
tied at the ankles, and a white hat that had evidently 
seen service. He came limping up the gravel-walk, aid¬ 
ing himself by a stout walking-staff, but moving rapidly 
and with vigor. By his side jogged along a large iron- 
gray stag-hound of most grave demeanor, who took no 
part in the clamor of the canine rabble, but seemed to 
consider himself bound, for the dignity of the house, to 
give me a courteous reception. 

Before Scott had reached the gate he called out in a 
hearty tone, welcoming me to Abbotsford, and asking 
news of Campbell. Arrived at the door of the chaise, he 
grasped me warmly by the hand: “ Come, drive down, 
drive down to the house,” said he, “ye’re just in time 
for breakfast, and afterwards ye shall see all the wonders 
of the Abbey.” 


256 


CEA TON MISCELLANY. 


I would have excused myself, on the plea of having 
already made my breakfast. “ Hout, man,” cried he, “ a 
ride in the morning in the keen air of the Scotch hills is 
warrant enough for a second breakfast.” 

I was accordingly whirled to the portal of the cottage, 
and in a few moments found myself seated at the break¬ 
fast-table. There was no one present but the family: 
which consisted of Mrs. Scott; her eldest daughter So¬ 
phia, then a fine girl about seventeen; Miss Ann Scott, 
two or three years younger; Walter, a well-grown strip¬ 
ling ; and Charles, a lively boy, eleven or twelve years of 
age. I soon felt myself quite at home, and my heart in 
a glow with the cordial welcome I experienced. I had 
thought to make a mere morning visit, but found I was 
not to be let off so lightly. “ You must not think our 
neighborhood is to be read in a morning, like a news¬ 
paper,” said Scott. “ It takes several days of study for 
an observant traveller that has a relish for auld-world 
trumpery. After breakfast you shall make your visit to 
Melrose Abbey; I shall not be able to accompany you, 
as I have some household affairs to attend to, but I will 
put you in charge of my son Charles, who is very learned 
in all things touching the old ruin and the neighborhood 
it stands in, and he and my friend Johnny Bower will tell 
you the whole truth about it, with a good deal more that 
you are not called upon to believe—unless you be a true 
and nothing-doubting antiquary. When you come back, 
I’ll take you out on a ramble about the neighborhood. 


ABBOTSFORD. 


257 


To-morrow we will take a look at the Yarrow, and the 
next day we will drive over to Dryburgh Abbey, which 
is a fine old rnin well worth yonr seeing; ”—in a word, 
before Scott had got through with his plan, I found my¬ 
self committed for a visit of several days, and it seemed 
as if a little realm of romance was suddenly opened be¬ 
fore me. 

After breakfast I accordingly set off for the Abbey 
with my little friend Charles, whom I found a most 
sprightly and entertaining companion. He had an am¬ 
ple stock of anecdote about the neighborhood, which he 
had learned from his father, and many quaint remarks 
and sly jokes, evidently derived from the same source, 
all which were uttered with a Scottish accent and a mix¬ 
ture of Scottish phraseology, that gave them additional 
flavor. 

On our way to the Abbey he gave me some anecdotes 
of Johnny Bower, to whom his father had alluded; he 
was sexton of the parish and custodian of the ruin, em¬ 
ployed to keep it in ordef and show it to strangers;— 
a worthy little man, not without ambition in his humble 
sphere. The death of his predecessor had been men¬ 
tioned in the newspapers, so that his name had appeared 
in print throughout the land. When Johnny succeeded 
to the guardianship of the ruin, he stipulated that, on 
his death, his name should receive like honorable blazon; 
with this addition, that it should be from the pen of 


258 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Scott. The latter gravely pledged himself to pay thij 
tribute to his memory, and Johnny now lived in the 
proud anticipation of a poetic immortality. 

I found Johnny Bower a decent-looking little old man, 
in blue coat and red waistcoat. He received us with 
much greeting, and seemed delighted to see my young 
companion, who was full of merriment and waggery, 
drawing out his peculiarities for my amusement. The 
old man was one of the most authentic and particular of 
cicerones; he j)ointed out everything in the Abbey that 
had been described by Scott in his “Lay of the Last 
Minstrel;” and would repeat, with broad Scottish ac¬ 
cent, the passage which celebrated it. 

Thus, in passing through the cloisters, he made me 
remark the beautiful carvings of leaves and flowers 
wrought in stone with the most exquisite delicacy, and, 
notwithstanding the lapse of centuries, retaining their 
sharpness as if fresh from the chisel; rivalling, as Scott 
has said, the real objects of which they were imita¬ 
tions,—* 

“ Nor herb nor flowret glistened there 
But was carved in the cloister arches as fair.” 

He pointed out also among the carved work a nun’s 
head of much beauty, which he said Scott always stopped 
to admire ,—“ for the shirra had a wonderful eye for all 
sic matters.” 

I would observe, that Scott seemed to derive more 


ABBOTSFORD. 


259 


o nsequence in the neighborhood from being sheriff of 
tl d county than from being poet. 

In the interior of the Abbey, Johnny Bower conducted 
u 3 to the identical stone on which Stout William of 
E sloraine and the Monk took their seat on that memo¬ 
rable night when the wizard’s book was to be rescued 
bom the grave. Nay, Johnny had even gone beyond 
S ;ott in the minuteness of his antiquarian research, for 
h.3 had discovered the very tomb of the wizard, the 
position of which had been left in doubt by the poet. 
This he boasted to have ascertained by the position 
of the oriel window, and the direction in which the 
moonbeams fell at night, through the stained glass, cast¬ 
ing the shadow to the red cross on the spot; as had all 
been specified in the poem. “ I pointed out the whole 
to the shirra,” said he, “and he could na’ gainsay but 
it was varra clear.” I found afterwards, that Scott used 
to amuse himself with the simplicity of the old man, 
and his zeal in verifying every passage of the poem, as 
though it had been authentic history, and that he always 
acquiesced in his deductions. I subjoin the description 
of the wizard’s grave, which called forth the antiquarian 
research of Johnny Bower. 

“ Lo, warrior ! now the cross of red 
Points to the grave of the mighty dead; 

Slow moved the monk to the broad flag-stone. 

Which the bloody cross was traced upon: 

He pointed to a sacred nook. 

An iron bar the warrior took; 


U60 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


And the monk made a sign with his withered hand, 

The grave’s huge portal to expand. 

“ It was by dint of passing strength 
That he moved the massy stone at length. 

I would you had been there, to see 
How the light broke forth so gloriously. 

Streamed upward to the chancel roof, 

And through the galleries far aloof ! 

And, issuing from the tomb, 

Showed the monk’s cowl and visage pale. 

Danced on the dark brown warrior’s mail. 

And kissed his waving plume. 

“ Before their eyes the wizard lay, 

As if he had not been dead a day. 

His hoary beard in silver rolled, 

He seemed some seventy winters old; 

A palmer’s amice wrapped him round; 

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound. 

Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea; 

His left hand held his book of might; 

A silver cross was in his right: 

The lamp was placed beside his knee.” 

The fictions of Scott had become facts with honest 
Johnny Bower. From constantly living among the ruins 
of Melrose Abbey, and pointing out the scenes of the 
poem, the “ Lay of the Last Minstrel ” had, in a manner, 
become interwoven with his whole existence, and I doubt 
whether he did not now and then mix up his own iden¬ 
tity with the personages of some of its cantos. 


ABBOTSFORD. 


261 


He could not bear that any other production of the 
poet should be preferred to the “ Lay of the Last Min¬ 
strel.” “ Faith,” said he to me, “ it’s just e’en as gude 
a thing as Mr. Scott has written—an’ if he were stannin’ 
there I’d tell him so—an’ then he’d lauff.” 

He was loud in his praises of the affability of Scott. 
“ He’ll come here sometimes,” said he, “ with great folks 
in his company, an’ the first I know of it is his voice, 
calling out Johnny !—Johnny Bower !—and when I go 
out, I am sure to be greeted with a joke or a pleasant 
word. He’ll stand and crack and lauff wi’ me, just like 
an auld wife—and to think that of a man that has such 
an awfu’ knowledge o’ history ! ” 

One of the ingenious devices on which the worthy 
little man prided himself, was to place a visitor opposite 
to the Abbey, with his back to it, and bid him bend down 
and look at it between his legs. This, he said, gave an 
entire different aspect to the ruin. Folks admired the 
plan amazingly, but as to the “leddies,” they were 
dainty on the matter, and contented themselves with 
looking from under their arms. 

As Johnny Bower piqued himself upon showing every¬ 
thing laid down in the poem, there was one passage that 
perplexed him sadly. It was the opening of one of the 
cantos : 

“ If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 

Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 

For the gay beams of lightsome day 
Gild but to flout the ruins gray,” &c. 


262 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


In consequence of this admonition, many of the most 
devout pilgrims to the ruin could not be contented with 
a daylight inspection, and insisted it could be nothing, 
unless seen by the light of the moon. Now, unfortu¬ 
nately, the moon shines but for a part of the month; and 
what is still more unfortunate, is very apt in Scotland to 
be obscured by clouds and mists. Johnny was sorely 
puzzled, therefore, how to accommodate his poetry-struck 
visitors with this indispensable moonshine. At length, 
in a lucky moment, he devised a substitute. This was 
a great double tallow candle, stuck upon the end of a 
pole, with which he could conduct his visitors about the 
ruins on dark nights, so much to their satisfaction that, 
at length, he began to think it even preferable to the 
moon itself. “ It does na light up a’ the Abbey at aince, 
to be sure,” he would say, “but then you can shift it 
about and show the auld ruin bit by bit, whiles the moon 
only shines on one side.” 

Honest Johnny Bower! so many years have elapsed 
since the time I treat of, that it is more than probable 
his simple head lies beneath the walls of his favorite 
Abbey. It is to be hoped his humble ambition has been 
gratified, and his name recorded by the pen of the man 
he so loved and honored. 

After my return from Melrose Abbey, Scott proposed 
a ramble to show me something of the surrounding coun¬ 
try. As we sallied forth, every dog in the establishment 


ABBOTSFORD . 


263 


turned out to attend us. There was the old stag-hound 
Maida, that I have already mentioned, a noble animal, 
and a great favorite of Scott’s; and Hamlet, the black 
greyhound, a wild thoughtless youngster, not yet arrived 
to the years of discretion; and Finette, a beautiful set¬ 
ter, with soft silken hair, long pendent ears, and a mild 
eye, the parlor favorite. When in front of the house, we 
were joined by a superannuated greyhound, who came 
from the kitchen wagging his tail, and was cheered by 
Scott as an old friend and comrade. 

In our walks, Scott would frequently pause in conver¬ 
sation to notice his dogs and speak to them, as if rational 
companions ; and indeed there appears to be a vast deal 
of rationality in these faithful attendants on man, derived 
from their close intimacy with him. Maida deported 
himself with a gravity becoming his age and size, and 
seemed to consider himself called upon to preserve a 
great degree of dignity and decorum in our society. As 
he jogged along a little distance ahead of us, the young 
dogs would gambol about him, leap on his neck, worry 
at his ears, and endeavor to tease him into a frolic. The 
old dog would keep on for a long time with imperturba¬ 
ble solemnity, now and then seeming to rebuke the wan¬ 
tonness of his young companions. At length he would 
make a sudden turn, seize one of them, and tumble him 
in the dust ; then giving a glance at us, as much as to 
say, “ You see, gentlemen, I can’t help giving way to this 
nonsense,” would resume his gravity and jog on as before. 


264 


GRA YON MISCELLANY. 


Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. “I 
make no doubt,” said he, “ when Maida is alone with 
these young dogs, he throws gravity aside, and plays the 
boy as much as any of them; but he is ashamed to do so 
in our company, and seems to say, ‘ Ha’ done with your 
nonsense, youngsters ; what will the laird and that other 
gentleman think of me if I give way to such foolery? ’ ” 

Maida reminded him, he said, of a scene on board an 
armed yacht in which he made an excursion with his 
friend Adam Ferguson. They had taken much notice of 
the boatswain, who was a fine sturdy seaman, and evi¬ 
dently felt flattered by their attention. On one occasion 
the crew were “ piped to fun,” and the sailors were danc¬ 
ing and cutting all kinds of capers to the music of the 
ship’s band. The boatswain looked on with a wistful 
eye, as if he would like to join in; but a glance at Scott 
and Ferguson showed that there was a struggle with his 
dignity, fearing to lessen himself in their eyes. At 
length one of his messmates came up, and, seizing him 
by the arm, challenged him to a jig. The boatswain, 
continued Scott, after a little hesitation complied, made 
an awkward gambol or two, like our friend Maida, but 
soon gave it up. “It’s of no use,” said he, jerking up his 
waistband and giving a side-glance at us, “one can’t 
dance always nouther.” 

Scott amused himself with the peculiarities of another 
of his dogs, a little shamefaced terrier, with large glassy 
eyes, one of the most sensitive little bodies to insult and 


ABBOTSFORD. 


265 


indignity in the world. If ever he whipped him, he said, 
the little fellow would sneak off and hide himself from 
the light of day, in a lumber-garret, whence there was no 
drawing him forth but by the sound of the chopping- 
knife, as if chopping up his victuals, when he would steal 
forth with humbled and downcast look, but would skulk 
away again if any one regarded him. 

While we were discussing the humors and peculiarities 
of our canine companions, some object provoked their 
spleen, and produced a sharp and petulant barking from 
the smaller fry, but it was some time before Maida was 
sufficiently aroused to ramp forward two or three bounds 
and join in the chorus, with a deep-mouthed bow-wow! 

It was but a transient outbreak, and he returned in¬ 
stantly, wagging his tail, and looking up dubiously in his 
master’s face; uncertain whether he would censure or 
applaud. 

“ Aye, aye, old boy! ” cried Scott, “ you have done 
wonders. You have shaken the Eildon hills with your 
roaring; you may now lay by your artillery for the rest 
of the day. Maida is like the great gun at Constanti¬ 
nople,” continued he; “ it takes so long to get it ready, 
that the small guns can fire off a dozen times first, but 
when it does go off it plays the very d—1.” 

These simple anecdotes may serve to show the delight¬ 
ful play of Scott’s humors and feelings in private life. 
His domestic animals were his friends; everything about 
him seemed to rejoice in the light of his countenance: 


266 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


tile face of tlie humblest dependant brightened at his 
approach, as if he anticipated a cordial and cheering 
word. I had occasion to observe this particularly in a 
visit which we paid to a quarry, whence several men 
were cutting stone for the new edifice; who all paused 
from their labor to have a pleasant “ crack wi’ the laird.” 
One of them was a burgess of Selkirk, with whom Scott 
had some joke about the old song,— 

“Up with the Souters o’ Selkirk, 

And down with the Earl of Home.” 

Another was precentor at the Kirk, and, beside leading 
the psalmody on Sunday, taught the lads and lasses of 
the neighborhood dancing on week-days, in the winter¬ 
time, when out-of-door labor was scarce. 

Among the rest was a tall, straight old fellow, with a 
healthful complexion and silver hair, and a small round- 
crowned white hat. He had been about to shoulder a 
hod, but paused, and stood looking at Scott, with a slight 
sparkling of his blue eye, as if waiting his turn; for the 
old fellow knew himself to be a favorite. 

Scott accosted him in an affable tone, and asked for a 
pinch of snuff. The old man drew forth a horn snuff¬ 
box. “ Hoot, man,” said Scott, “ not that old mull : 
where’s the bonnie French one that I brought you from 
Paris?”—“Troth, your honor,” replied the old fellow, 
“sic a mull as that is nae for week-days.” 

On leaving the quarry, Scott informed me that when 


ABBOTSFORD. 


267 


absent at Paris, lie had purchased several trifling articles 
as presents for his dependants, and among others the 
gay snuff-box in question, which was so carefully re¬ 
served for Sundays by the veteran. “ It was not so 
much the value of the gifts,” said he, “ that pleased 
them, as the idea that the laird should think of them 
when so far away.” 

The old man in question, I found, was a great favorite 
with Scott. If I recollect right, he had been a soldier in 
early life, and his straight, erect person, his ruddy yet 
rugged countenance, his gray hair, and an arch gleam in 
his blue eye, reminded me of the description of Edie 
Ochiltree. I find that the old fellow has since been in¬ 
troduced by Wilkie, in his picture of the Scott family. 

We rambled on among scenes which had been familiar 
in Scottish song, and rendered classic by the pastoral 
muse, long before Scott had thrown the rich mantle of 
his poetry over them. What a thrill of pleasure did I 
feel when first I saw the broom-covered tops of the 
Cowden Knowes, peeping above the gray hills of the 
Tweed; and what touching associations were called up 
by the sight of Ettrick Yale, Galla Water, and the Braes 
of Yarrow! Every turn brought to mind some house¬ 
hold air—some almost forgotten song of the nursery, by 
which I had been lulled to sleep in my childhood; and 
with them the looks and voices of those who had sung 
them, and who were now no more. It is these melodies, 


268 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


chanted in our ears in the days of infancy, and con¬ 
nected with the memory of those we have loved, and who 
have passed away, that clothe Scottish landscape with 
such tender associations. The Scottish songs, in general, 
have something intrinsically melancholy in them ; owing, 
in all probability, to the pastoral and lonely life of those 
who composed them; who were often mere shepherds, 
tending their flocks in the solitary glens, or folding them 
among the naked hills. Many of these rustic bards have 
passed away, without leaving a name behind them ; noth¬ 
ing remains of them but their sweet and touching songs, 
which live, like echoes, about the places they once in¬ 
habited. Most of these simple effusions of pastoral 
poets are linked with some favorite haunt of the poet; 
and in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town or 
tower, green shaw or running stream, in Scotland, but 
has some popular air connected with it, that makes its 
very name a key-note to a whole train of delicious fancies 
and feelings. 

Let me step forward in time, and mention how sensi¬ 
ble I was to the power of these simple airs, in a visit 
which I made to Ayr, the birthplace of Eobert Burns. 
I passed a whole morning about “ the banks and braes 
of bonnie Doon,” with his tender little love-verses run¬ 
ning in my head. I found a poor Scotch carpenter at 
work among the ruins of Kirk Alloway, which was to be 
converted into a school-house. Finding the purpose of 
my visit, he left his work, sat down with me on a grassy 


ABBOTSFORD. 


269 


grave, close by where Burns’ father was buried, and 
talked of the poet, whom he had known personally. He 
said his songs were familiar to the poorest and most 
illiterate of the country folk, “ and it seamed to him as if 
the country had grown more beautiful since Burns had writ¬ 
ten his bonnie little songs about it.” 

I found Scott was quite an enthusiast on the subject of 
the popular songs of his country, and he seemed gratified 
to find me so alive to them. Their effect in calling up in 
my mind the recollections of early times and scenes in 
which I had first heard them, reminded him, he said, 
of the lines of his poor friend, Leyden, to the Scottish 
Muse:— 


“ In youth’s first morn, alert and gay. 

Ere rolling years had passed away, 
Remembered like a morning dream, 

I heard the dulcet measures float, 

In many a liquid winding note, 

Along the bank of Teviot’s stream. 

“ Sweet sounds ! that oft have soothed to rest 
The sorrows of my guileless breast, 

And charmed away mine infant tears ; 
Fond memory shall your strains repeat, 
Like distant echoes, doubly sweet, 

That on the wild the traveller hears.” 


Scott went on to expatiate on the popular songs of 
Scotland. “ They are a part of our national inheritance,” 
said he, “ and something that we may truly call our own. 


270 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


They have no foreign taint; they have the pure breath 
of the heather and the mountain breeze. All the gen¬ 
uine legitimate races that have descended from the an¬ 
cient Britons, such as the Scotch, the Welsh, and the 
Irish, have national airs. The English have none, 
because they are not natives of the soil, or, at least, are 
mongrels. Their music is all made up of foreign scraps, 
like a harlequin jacket, or a piece of mosaic. Even in 
Scotland we have comparatively few national songs in 
the eastern part, where we have had most influx of 
strangers. A real old Scottish song is a cairn gorm— 
a gem of our own mountains ; or, rather, it is a precious 
relic of old times, that bears the national character 
stamped upon it,—like a cameo, that shows what the 
national visage was in former days, before the breed was 
crossed.” 

While Scott was thus discoursing, we were passing up 
a narrow glen, with the dogs beating about, to right and 
left, when suddenly a black cock burst upon the wing. 

“ Aha! ” cried Scott, “ there will be a good shot for 
master Walter; we must send him this way with his gun, 
when we go home. Walter’s the family sportsman now, 
and keeps us in game. I have pretty nigh resigned my 
gun to him; for I find I cannot trudge about as briskly 
as formerly.” 

Our ramble took us on the hills commanding an exten¬ 
sive prospect. “ Now,” said Scott, “ I have brought you, 
like the pilgrim in the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ to the top 


ABBOTSFORD. 


271 


of the Delectable Mountains, that I may show you all 
the goodly regions hereabouts. Yonder is Lammermuir, 
and Smalholme; and there you have Gallashiels, and 
Torwoodlie, and Gallawater; and in that direction you 
see Teviotdale, and the Braes of Yarrow; and Ettrick 
stream, winding along, like a silver thread, to throw itself 
into the Tweed.” 

He went on thus to call over names celebrated in Scot¬ 
tish song, and most of which had recently received a 
romantic interest from his own pen. In fact, I saw a 
great part of the border country spread out before me, 
and could trace the scenes of those poems and romances 
which had, in a manner, bewitched the world. I gazed 
about me for a time with mute surprise, I may almost 
say with disappointment. I beheld a mere succession of 
gray waving hills, line beyond line, as far as my eye could 
reach; monotonous in their aspect, and so destitute of 
trees that one could almost see a stout fly walking along 
their profile; and the far - famed Tweed appeared a 
naked stream, flowing between bare hills, without a tree 
or thicket on its banks; and yet, such had been the 
magic web of poetry and romance thrown over the whole, 
that it had a greater charm for me than the richest sce¬ 
nery I beheld in England. 

I could not help giving utterance to my thoughts. 
Scott hummed for a moment to himself, and looked 
grave; he had no idea of having his muse complimented 
at the expense of his native hills. “It may be parti- 


272 


ORA TON MISCELLANY. 


ality,” said he, at length, “but to my eye these gray hills 
and all this wild border country have beauties peculiar 
to themselves. I like the] very nakedness of the land; 
it has something bold, and stern, and solitary about it. 
When I have been for some time in the rich scenery 
about Edinburgh, which is like ornamented garden-land, 
I begin to wish myself back again among my own honest 
gray hills; and if I did not see the heather at least once 
a year, I think I should die ! ” 

The last words were said with an honest warmth, 
accompanied with a thump on the ground with his staff, 
by way of emphasis, that showed his heart was in his 
speech. He vindicated the Tweed, too, as a beautiful 
stream in itself, and observed that he did not dislike it 
for being bare of trees, probably from having been much 
of an angler in his time, and an angler does not like to 
have a stream overhung by trees, which embarrass him 
in the exercise of his rod and line. 

I took occasion to plead, in like manner, the associa¬ 
tions of early life, for my disappointment in respect to 
the surrounding scenery. I had been so accustomed to 
hills crowned with forests, and streams breaking their 
way through a wilderness of trees, that all my ideas of 
romantic landscape were apt to be well wooded. 

“Aye, and that’s the great charm of your country,” 
cried Scott. “ You love the forest as I do the heather,— 
but I would not have you think I do not feel the glory of 
a great woodland prospect. There is nothing I should 


ABBOTSFORD. 


273 


like more than to be in the midst of one of your grand, 
wild, original forests: with the idea of hundreds of miles 
of untrodden forest around me. I once saw, at Leith, an 
immense stick of timber, just landed from America. It 
must have been an enormous tree when it stood on its 
native soil, at its full height, and with all its branches. 
I gazed at it with admiration; it seemed like one of the 
gigantic obelisks which are now and then brought from 
Egypt, to shame the pigmy monuments of Europe; and, 
in fact, these vast aboriginal trees, that have sheltered 
the Indians before the intrusion of the white men, are 
the monuments and antiquities of your country.” 

The conversation here turned upon Campbell’s poem 
of “ Gertrude of Wyoming,” as illustrative of the poetic 
materials furnished by American scenery. Scott spoke 
of it in that liberal style in which I always found him to 
speak of the writings of his contemporaries. He cited 
several passages of it with great delight. “ What a pity 
it is,” said he, “ that Campbell does not write more and 
oftener, and give full sweep to his genius. He has wings 
that would bear him to the skies; and he does now 
and then spread them grandly, but folds them up again 
and resumes his perch, as if he was afraid to launch 
away. He don’t know or won’t trust his own strength. 
Even when he has done a thing well, he has often mis¬ 
givings about it. He left out several fine passages of his 
‘ Lochiel,’ but I got him to restore some of them.” Here 
Scott repeated several passages in a magnificent style. 

18 


274 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


“ What a grand idea is that,” said he, “ about prophetic 
boding, or, in common parlance, second sight,— 

‘ Coming events cast their shadows before.’ 

It is a noble thought, and nobly expressed. And there’s 
that glorious little poem, too, of ‘ Hohenlinden ’; after he 
had written it, he did not seem to think much of it, but 
considered some of it ‘ d—d drum and trumpet lines.’ I 
got him to recite it to me, and I believe that the delight 
I felt and expressed had an effect in inducing him to 
print it. The fact is,” added he, “ Campbell is, in a 
manner, a bugbear to himself. The brightness of his 
early success is a detriment to all his further efforts. He 
is afraid of the shadow that his own fame casts before him.” 

While we were thus chatting, we heard the report of a 
gun among the hills. “That’s Walter, I think,” said 
Scott; “ he has finished his morning’s studies, and is out 
with his gun. I should not be surprised if he had met 
with the black cock; if so, we shall have an addition to 
our larder, for Walter is a pretty sure shot.” 

I inquired into the nature of Walter’s studies. “Faith,” 
said Scott, “I can’t say much on that head. I am not 
over-bent upon making prodigies of any of my children. 
As to Walter, I taught him, while a boy, to ride, and 
shoot, and speak the truth; as to the other parts of his 
education, I leave them to a very worthy young man, the 
son of one of our clergymen, who instructs all my chil¬ 
dren.” 


ABBOTSFORD. 


275 


I afterwards became acquainted with the young man 
in question, George Thomson, son of the minister of 
Melrose, and found him possessed of much learning, in¬ 
telligence, and modest worth. He used to come every 
day from his father’s residence at Melrose, to superin¬ 
tend the studies of the young folks, and occasionally took 
his meals at Abbotsford, where he was highly esteemed. 
Nature had cut him out, Scott used to say, for a stalwart 
soldier; for he was tall, vigorous, active, and fond of 
athletic exercises; but accident had marred her work, 
the loss of a limb in boyhood having reduced him to a 
w T ooden leg. He was brought up, therefore, for the 
church, whence he was occasionally called the Dominie, 
and is supposed, by his mixture of learning, simplicity, 
and amiable eccentricity, to have furnished many traits 
for the character of Dominie Sampson. I believe he 
often acted as Scott’s amanuensis, when composing his 
novels. With him the young people were occupied, in 
general, during the early part of the day, after which 
they took all kinds of healthful recreations in the open 
air; for Scott was as solicitous to strengthen their bodies 
as their minds. 

We had not walked much further before we saw the 
two Miss Scotts advancing along the hill-side to meet us. 
The morning studies being over, they had set off to take 
a ramble on the hills, and gather heather-blossoms with 
which to decorate their hair for dinner. As they came 
bounding lightly like young fawns, and their dresses 


276 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


fluttering in the pure summer breeze, I was reminded 
of Scott’s own description of his children in his introduc¬ 
tion to one of the cantos of “ Marmion,”— 

“ My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild. 

As best befits the mountain-child, 

Their summer gambols tell and mourn, 

And anxious ask will spring return, 

And birds and lambs again be gay, 

And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray ? 

“Yes, prattlers, yes, the daisy’s flower 
Again shall paint your summer bower ; 

Again the hawthorn shall supply 
The garlands you delight to tie ; 

The lambs upon the lea shall bound, 

The wild birds carol to the round, 

And while you frolic light as they, 

Too short shall seem the summer day.” 

As they approached, the dogs all sprang forward and 
gambolled around them. They played with them for a 
time, and then joined us with countenances full of health 
and glee. Sophia, the eldest, was the most lively and 
joyous, having much of her father’s varied spirit in con¬ 
versation, and seeming to catch excitement from his words 
and looks. Ann was of quieter mood, rather silent, ow¬ 
ing, in some measure, no doubt, to her being some years 
younger. 


At dinner, Scott had laid by his half rtistic dress, and 


ABBOTSFORD. 


277 


appeared clad in black. The girls, too, in completing 
their toilet, had twisted in their hair the sprigs of pur¬ 
ple heather which they had gathered on the hill-side, 
and looked all fresh and blooming from their breezy 
walk. 

There was no guest at dinner but myself. Around the 
table were two or three dogs in attendance. Maida, the 
old stag-hound, took his seat at Scott’s elbow, looking 
up wistfully in his master’s eye, while Finette, the pet 
spaniel, placed herself near Mrs. Scott, by whom, I soon 
perceived, she was completely spoiled. 

The conversation happening to turn on the merits of 
his dogs, Scott spoke with great feeling and affection 
of his favorite, Camp, who is depicted by his side in the 
earlier engravings of him. He talked of him as of a real 
friend whom he had lost; and Sophia Scott, looking up 
archly in his face, observed that papa shed a few tears 
when poor Camp died. I may here mention another 
testimonial of Scott’s fondness for his dogs, and his 
humorous mode of showing it, which I subsequently 
met with. Rambling with him one morning about the 
grounds adjacent to the house, I observed a small an¬ 
tique monument, on which was inscribed, in Gothic 
characters,— 

“ Cy git le preux Percy.” 

(Here lies the brave Percy.) 

I paused, supposing it to be the tomb of some stark 


278 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


warrior of the olden time, but Scott drew me on. 
“ Pooh! ” cried he, “ it’s nothing but one of the monu¬ 
ments of my nonsense, of which you’ll find enough here¬ 
abouts.” I learnt afterwards that it was the grave of a 
favorite greyhound. 

Among the other important and privileged members 
of the household who figured in attendance at the din¬ 
ner, was a large gray cat, who, I observed, was regaled 
from time to time with titbits from the table. This sage 
grimalkin was a favorite of both master and mistress, 
and slept at night in their room; and Scott laughingly 
observed, that one of the least wise parts of their estab¬ 
lishment was, that the window was left open at night for 
puss to go in and out. The cat assumed a kind of 
ascendency among the quadrupeds—sitting in state in 
Scott’s arm-chair, and occasionally stationing himself on 
a chair beside the door, as if to review his subjects 
as they passed, giving each dog a cuff beside the ears as 
he went by. This clapper-clawing was always taken in 
good part; it appeared to be, in fact, a mere act of sov¬ 
ereignty on the part of grimalkin, to remind the others 
of their vassalage ; which they acknowledged by the most 
perfect acquiescence. A general harmony prevailed be¬ 
tween sovereign and subjects, and they would all sleep 
together in the sunshine. 

Scott was full of anecdote and conversation during 
dinner. He made some admirable remarks upon the 
Scottish character, and spoke strongly in praise of the 


ABBOTSFORD. 


279 


quiet, orderly, honest conduct of his neighbors, which 
one would hardly expect, said he, from the descendants 
of moss-troopers and borderers, in a neighborhood famed 
in old times for brawl and feud, and violence of all kinds. 
He said he had, in his official capacity of sheriff, admin¬ 
istered the laws for a number of years, during which 
there had been very few trials. The old feuds and local 
interests, and rivalries, and animosities of the Scotch, 
however, still slept, he said, in their ashes, and might 
easily be roused. Their hereditary feeling for names was 
still great. It was not always safe to have even the 
game of foot-ball between villages, the old clannish spirit 
was too apt to break out. The Scotch, he said, were more 
revengeful than the English; they carried their resent¬ 
ments longer, and would sometimes lay them by for 
years, but would be sure to gratify them in the end. 

The ancient jealousy between the Highlanders and the 
Lowlanders still continued to a certain degree, the for¬ 
mer looking upon the latter as an inferior race, less 
brave and hardy, but at the same time suspecting them 
of a disposition to take airs upon themselves under the 
idea of superior refinement. This made them techy and 
ticklish company for a stranger on his first coming among 
them; ruffling up and putting themselves upon their 
mettle on the slightest occasion, so that he had in a man¬ 
ner to quarrel and fight his way into their good graces. 

He instanced a case in point in a brother of Mungo 
Park, who went to take up his residence in a wild neigh- 


280 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


borhood of the Highlands. He soon found himself con¬ 
sidered as an intruder, and that there was a disposition 
among these cocks of the hills to fix a quarrel on him, 
trusting that, being a Lowlander, he would show the 
white feather. 

For a time he bore their flings and taunts with great 
coolness, until one, presuming on his forbearance, drew 
forth a dirk, and holding it before him, asked him if he 
had ever seen a weapon like that in his part of the coun¬ 
try. Park, who was a Hercules in frame, seized the 
dirk, and, with one blow, drove it through an oaken 
table. “Yes,” replied he, “and tell your friends that 
a man from the Lowlands drove it where the devil him¬ 
self cannot draw it out again.” All persons were de¬ 
lighted with the feat, and the words that accompanied 
it. They drank with Park to a better acquaintance, and 
were stanch friends ever afterwards. 

After dinner we adjourned to the drawing-room, which 
served also for study and library. Against the wall on 
one side was a long writing-table, with drawers; sur¬ 
mounted by a small cabinet of polished wood, with fold¬ 
ing doors richly studded with brass ornaments, within 
which Scott kept his most valuable papers. Above the 
cabinet, in a kind of niche, was a complete corselet of 
glittering steel, with a closed helmet, and flanked by 
gauntlets and battle-axes. Around were hung trophies 
and relics of various kinds: a cimeter of Tippoo Saib; 


ABBOTSFORD. 


281 


a Highland broadsword from Floddenfield; a pair of 
Rippon spurs from Bannockburn, and above all, a gun 
which had belonged to Rob Roy, and bore his initials, 
R. M. G.,—an object of peculiar interest to me at the 
time, as it was understood Scott was actually engaged 
in printing a novel founded on the story of that famous 
outlaw. 

On each side of the cabinet were bookcases, well stored 
with works of romantic fiction in various languages, 
many of them rare and antiquated. This, however, was 
merely his cottage library, the principal part of his 
books being at Edinburgh. 

From this little cabinet of curiosities Scott drew forth 
a manuscript picked up on the field of Waterloo, contain¬ 
ing copies of several songs popular at the time in France. 
The paper was dabbled with blood—“ the very life-blood, 
very possibly,” said Scott, “of some gay young officer, 
who had cherished these songs as a keepsake from some 
lady-love in Paris.” 

He adverted in a mellow and delightful manner to the 
little half gay, half melancholy campaigning song, said to 
have been composed by General Wolfe, and sung by him 
at the mess-table, on the eve of the storming of Quebec, 
in which he fell so gloriously. 

“Why, soldiers, why, 

Should we be melancholy, boys ? 

Why, soldiers, why, 

Whose business ’tis to die ! 


282 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


For should next campaign 
Send us to him who made us, boys, 

We’re free from pain : 

But should we remain, 

A bottle and kind landlady 
Makes all well again.” 

“So,” added he, “the poor lad who fell at Waterloo, in 
all probability, had been singing these songs in his tent 
the night before the battle, and thinking of the fair dame 
who had taught him them, and promising himself, should 
he outlive the campaign, to return to her all glorious 
from the wars.” 

I find since that Scott published translations of these 
songs among some of his smaller poems. 

The evening passed away delightfully in this quaint- 
looking apartment, half study, half drawing-room. Scott 
read several passages from the old romance of Arthur, 
with a fine deep sonorous voice, and a gravity of tone 
that seemed to suit the antiquated, black-letter volume. 
It was a rich treat to hear such a work, read by such a 
person, and in such a place; and his appearance as he 
sat reading, in a large armed chair, with his favorite 
hound Maida at his feet, and surrounded by books and 
relics, and border trophies, would have formed an ad¬ 
mirable and most characteristic picture. 

While Scott was reading, the sage grimalkin already 
mentioned had taken his seat in a chair beside the fire, 
and remained with fixed eye and grave demeanor, as if 


ABBOTSFORD. 


283 


listening to the reader. I observed to Scott that his cat 
seemed to have a black-letter taste in literature. 

“ Ah,” said he, “ these cats are a very mysterious kind 
of folk. There is always more passing in their minds 
than we are aware of. It comes no doubt from their 
being so familiar with witches and warlocks.” He went 
on to tell a little story about a gude man who was re¬ 
turning to his cottage one night, when, in a lonely out- 
of-the-way place, he met with a funeral procession of 
cats all in mourning, bearing one of their race to the 
grave in a coffin covered with a black velvet pall. The 
worthy man, astonished and half frightened at so strange 
a pageant, hastened home and told what he had seen to 
his wife and children. Scarce had he finished, when a 
great black cat that sat beside the fire raised himself up, 
exclaimed “ Then I am king of the cats! ” and vanished 
up the chimney. The funeral seen by the gude man was 
one of the cat dynasty. 

“ Our grimalkin here,” added Scott, “ sometimes re¬ 
minds me of the story, by the airs of sovereignty which 
he assumes ; and I am apt to treat him with respect from 
the idea that he may be a great prince incog., and may 
some time or other come to the throne.” 

In this way Scott would make the habits and peculiari¬ 
ties of even the dumb animals about him subjects for 
humorous remark or whimsical story. 

Our evening was enlivened also by an occasional song 
from Sophia Scott, at the request of her father. She 


284 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


never wanted to be asked twice, but complied frankly 
and cheerfully. Her songs were all Scotch, sung without 
any accompaniment, in a simple manner, but with great 
spirit and expression, and in their native dialects, which 
gave them an additional charm. It was delightful to 
hear her carol off in sprightly style, and with an ani¬ 
mated air, some of those generous-spirited old Jacobite 
songs, once current among the adherents of the Pre¬ 
tender in Scotland, in which he is designated by the ap¬ 
pellation of “ The Young Chevalier.” 

These songs were much relished by Scott, notwith¬ 
standing his loyalty; for the unfortunate “ Chevalier ” 
has always been a hero of romance with him, as he has 
with many other stanch adherents to the house of Hano¬ 
ver, now that the Stuart line has lost all its terrors. In 
speaking on the subject, Scott mentioned as a curious 
fact, that, among the papers of the “ Chevalier,” which 
had been submitted by government to his inspection, he 
had found a memorial to Charles from some adherents in 
America, dated 1778, proposing to set up his standard in 
the back settlements. I regret that, at the time, I did 
not make more particular inquiries of Scott on the sub¬ 
ject; the document in question, however, in all prob¬ 
ability, still exists among the Pretender’s papers, which 
are in the possession of the British Government. 

In the course of the evening, Scott related the story 
of a whimsical picture hanging in the room, which had 
been drawn for him by a lady of his acquaintance. It 


ABBOTSFORD. 


285 


represented the doleful perplexity of a wealthy and hand¬ 
some young English knight of the olden time, who, in 
the course of a border foray, had been captured and 
carried off to the castle of a hard-headed and high¬ 
handed old baron. The unfortunate youth was thrown 
into a dungeon, and a tall gallows erected before the 
castle-gate for his execution. When all was ready, he 
was brought into the castle-hall, where the grim baron 
was seated in state, with his warriors armed to the teeth 
around him, and was given his choice, either to swing 
on the gibbet or to marry the baron’s daughter. The 
last may be thought an easy alternative, but, unfortu¬ 
nately, the baron’s young lady was hideously ugly, with 
a mouth from ear to ear, so that not a suitor was to be 
had for her, either for love or money, and she was known 
throughout the border country by the name of Muckle- 
mouthed Mag! 

The picture in question represented the unhappy di¬ 
lemma of the handsome youth. Before him sat the grim 
baron, with a face worthy of the father of such a daugh¬ 
ter, and looking daggers and ratsbane. On one side of 
him was Muckle-moutlied Mag, with an amorous smile 
across the whole breadth of her countenance, and a leer 
enough to turn a man to stone; on the other side was 
the father confessor, a sleek friar, jogging the youth’s 
elbow, and pointing to the gallows, seen in perspective 
through the open portal. 

The story goes, that, after long laboring in mind be- 


286 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


tween the altar and the halter, the love of life prevailed, 
and the youth resigned himself to the charms of Muckle- 
mouthed Mag. Contrary to all the probabilities of ro¬ 
mance, the match proved a happy one. The baron’s 
daughter, if not beautiful, was a most exemplary wife; 
her husband was never troubled with any of those 
doubts and jealousies which sometimes mar the happi¬ 
ness of connubial life, and was made the father of a fair 
and undoubtedly legitimate line, which still flourishes on 
the border. 

I give but a faint outline of the story from vague recol¬ 
lection; it may, perchance, be more richly related else¬ 
where, by some one who may retain something of the 
delightful humor with which Scott recounted it. 

When I retired for the night, I found it almost impos¬ 
sible to sleep; the idea of being under the roof of Scott, 
of being on the borders of the Tweed, in the very centre 
of that region which had for some time past been the 
favorite scene of romantic fiction, and above all the rec¬ 
ollections of the ramble I had taken, the company in 
which I had taken it, and the conversation which had 
passed, all fermented in my mind, and nearly drove sleep 
from my pillow. 

On the following morning the sun darted his beams 
from over the hills through the low lattice window. I 
rose at an early hour, and looked out between the 
branches of eglantine which overhung the casement. To 


ABBOTSFORD. 


287 


my surprise Scott was already up and forth, seated on a 
fragment of stone, and chatting with the workmen em¬ 
ployed on the new building. I had supposed, after the 
time he had wasted upon me yesterday, he would be 
closely occupied this morning; but he appeared like a 
man of leisure, who had nothing to do but bask in the 
sunshine and amuse himself. 

I soon dressed myself and joined him. He talked 
about his proposed plans of Abbotsford : happy would it 
have been for him could he have contented himself with 
his delightful little vine-covered cottage, and the simple 
yet hearty and hospitable style in which he lived at the 
time of my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with the 
huge expense it entailed upon him, of servants, retainers, 
guests, and baronial style, was a drain upon his purse, a 
tax upon his exertions, and a weight upon his mind, that 
finally crushed him. 

As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective, 
and Scott pleased himself with picturing out his future 
residence, as he would one of the fanciful creations of his 
own romances. “ It was one of his air-castles,” he said, 
“which he was reducing to solid stone and mortar.” 
About the place were strewed various morsels from the 
ruins of Melrose Abbey, which were to be incorporated 
in his mansion. He had already constructed out of simi¬ 
lar materials a kind of Gothic shrine over a spring, and 
had surmounted it by a small stone cross. 

Among the relics from the Abbey which lay scattered 


288 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


before us, was a most quaint and antique little lion, 
either of red stone, or painted red, which hit my fancy. 
I forget whose cognizance it was; but I shall never for¬ 
get the delightful observations concerning old Melrose to 
which it accidentally gave rise. 

The Abbey was evidently a pile that called up all 
Scott’s poetic and romantic feelings; and one to which 
he was enthusiastically attached by the most fanciful and 
delightful of his early associations. He spoke of it, I 
may say, with affection. “ There is no telling,” said he, 
“what treasures are hid in that glorious old pile. It is 
a famous place for antiquarian plunder; there are such 
rich bits of old-time sculpture for the architect, and old- 
time story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it as 
in a Stilton cheese, and in the same taste—the mouldier 
the better.” 

He went on to mention circumstances of “ mighty im¬ 
port ” connected with the Abbey, which had never been 
touched, and which had even escaped the researches of 
Johnny Bower. The heart of Robert Bruce, the hero of 
Scotland, had been buried in it. He dwelt on the beau¬ 
tiful story of Bruce’s pious and chivalrous request in his 
dying hour, that his heart might be carried to the Holy 
Land and placed in the Holy Sepulchre, in fulfilment of 
a vow of pilgrimage; and of the loyal expedition of Sir 
James Douglas to convey the glorious relic. Much 
might be made, he said, out of the adventures of Sir 
James in that adventurous age; of his fortunes in Spain, 


ABBOTSFORD. 


289 


and his death in a crusade against the Moors; with the 
subsequent fortunes of the heart of Robert Bruce until 
it was brought back to its native land, and enshrined 
within the holy walls of old Melrose. 

As Scott sat on a stone talking in this way, and knock¬ 
ing with his staff against the little red lion which lay 
prostrate before him, his gray eyes twinkled beneath his 
shagged eyebrows; scenes, images, incidents, kept break¬ 
ing upon his mind as he proceeded, mingled with touches 
of the mysterious and supernatural as connected with 
the heart of Bruce. It seemed as if a poem or romance 
were breaking vaguely on his imagination. That he sub¬ 
sequently contemplated something of the kind, as con¬ 
nected with this subject, and with his favorite ruin of 
Melrose, is evident from his introduction to “ The Mon¬ 
astery ”; and it is a pity that he never succeeded in fol¬ 
lowing out these shadowy but enthusiastic conceptions. 

A summons to breakfast broke off our conversation, 
when I begged to recommend to Scott’s attention my 
friend the little red lion, who had led to such an in¬ 
teresting topic, and hoped he might receive some niche 
or station in the future castle, worthy of his evident 
antiquity and apparent dignity. Scott assured me, with 
comic gravity, that the valiant little lion should be most 
honorably entertained; I hope, therefore, that he still 
flourishes at Abbotsford. 

Before dismissing the theme of the relics from the 
Abbey, I will mention another, illustrative of Scott’s 
19 


290 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


varied humors. This was a human skull, which had 
probably belonged of yore to one of those jovial friars so 
honorably mentioned in the old border ballad,— 

“ 0 the monks of Melrose made glide kale 
On Fridays, when they fasted; 

They wanted neither beef nor ale, 

As long as their neighbors’ lasted.” 

This skull Scott had caused to be cleaned and var¬ 
nished, and placed it on a chest of drawers in his cham¬ 
ber, immediately opposite his bed; where I have seen it, 
grinning most dismally. It was an object of great awe 
and horror to the superstitious housemaids; and Scott 
used to amuse himself with their apprehensions. Some¬ 
times, in changing his dress, he would leave his neck¬ 
cloth coiled round it like a turban, and none of the 
“ lasses ” dared to remove it. It was a matter of great 
wonder and speculation among them that the laird should 
have such an “ awsome fancy for an auld girning skull.” 

At breakfast that morning Scott gave an amusing ac¬ 
count of a little Highlander called Campbell of the 
North, who had a lawsuit of many years’ standing with a 
nobleman in his neighborhood about the boundaries of 
their estates. It was the leading object of the little 
man’s life ; the running theme of all his conversations; 
he used to detail all the circumstances at full length to 
everybody he met, and, to aid him in his description of 
the premises, and make his story “mair preceese,” he 


ABBOTSFORD. 


291 


had a great map made of his estate, a huge roll several 
feet long, which he used to carry about on his shoulder. 
Campbell was a long-bodied but short and bandy-legged 
little man, always clad in the Highland garb; and as he 
went about with this great roll on his shoulder, and his 
little legs curving like a pair of parentheses below his 
kilt, he was an odd figure to behold. He was like little 
David shouldering the spear of Goliath, which was “ like 
unto a weaver’s beam.” 

Whenever sheep-shearing was over, Campbell used to 
set out for Edinburgh to attend to his lawsuit. At the 
inns he paid double for all his meals and his nights’ 
lodging; telling the landlords to keep it in mind until 
his return, so that he might come back that way at free 
cost; for he knew, he said, that he would spend all his 
money among the lawyers at Edinburgh, so he thought 
it best to secure a retreat home again. 

On one of his visits he called upon his lawyer, but was 
told he was not at home, but his lady was. “ It is just 
the same thing,” said little Campbell. On being shown 
into the parlor, he unrolled his map, stated his case at 
full length, and, having gone through with his story, 
gave her the customary fee. She would have declined 
it, but he insisted on her taking it. “I ha’ had just as 
much pleasure,” said he, “in telling the whole tale to 
you as I should have had in telling it to your husband, 
and I believe full as much profit.” 

The last time he saw Scott, he told him he believed 


292 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


lie and the laird were near a settlement, as they agreed 
to within a few miles of the boundary. If I recollect 
right, Scott added that he advised the little man to con¬ 
sign his cause and his map to the care of “ Slow Willie 
Mowbray,” of tedious memory: an Edinburgh worthy, 
much employed by the country people, for he tired out 
everybody in office by repeated visits and drawling, end¬ 
less prolixity, and gained every suit by dint of boring. 

These little stories and anecdotes, which abounded in 
Scott’s conversation, rose naturally out of the subject, 
and were perfectly unforced; though in thus relating 
them in a detached way, without the observations or cir¬ 
cumstances which led to them, and which have passed 
from my recollection, they want their setting to give 
them proper relief. They will serve, however, to show 
the natural play of his mind, in its familiar moods, and 
its fecundity in graphic and characteristic detail. 

His daughter Sophia and his son Charles were those 
of his family who seemed most to feel and understand 
his humors, and to take delight in his conversation. 
Mrs. Scott did not always pay the same attention, and 
would now and then make a casual remark which would 
operate a little like a damper. Thus, one morning at 
breakfast, when Dominie Thompson the tutor was pres¬ 
ent, Scott was going on with great glee to relate an anec¬ 
dote of the laird of Macnab, “who, poor fellow!” pre¬ 
mised he, “is dead and gone.”—“Why, Mr. Scott,” ex¬ 
claimed the good lady, “Macnab’s not dead, is he? M 


ABBOTSFORD. 


293 


—“Faith, my dear,” replied Scott, with humorous grav¬ 
ity, “ if he’s not dead they’ve done him great injustice,— 
for they’ve buried him.” 

The joke passed harmless and unnoticed by Mrs. Scott, 
but hit the poor Dominie just as he had raised a cup of 
tea to his lips, causing a burst of laughter which sent 
half of the contents about the table. 

After breakfast, Scott was occupied for some time cor¬ 
recting proof-sheets, which he had received by the mail. 
The novel of “ Rob Roy,” as I have already observed, 
was at that time in the press, and I supposed them to be 
the proof-sheets of that work. The authorship of the 
Waverley novels was still a matter of conjecture and un¬ 
certainty; though few doubted their being principally 
written by Scott. One proof to me of his being the 
author, was that he never adverted to them. A man so 
fond of anything Scottish, and anything relating to na¬ 
tional history or local legend, could not have been mute 
respecting such productions, had they been written by 
another. He was fond of quoting the works of his con¬ 
temporaries ; he was continually reciting scraps of bor¬ 
der songs, or relating anecdotes of border story. With 
respect to his own poems and their merits, however, he 
was mute, and while with him I observed a scrupulous 
silence on the subject. 

I may here mention a singular fact, of which I was not 
aware at the time, that Scott was very reserved with his 


294 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


children respecting his own writings, and was even disin¬ 
clined to their reading his romantic poems. I learnt 
this, some time after, from a passage in one of his letters 
to me, adverting to a set of the American miniature edi¬ 
tion of his poems, which, on my return to England, I 
forwarded to one of the young ladies. “In my hurry,” 
writes he, “I have not thanked you, in Sophia’s name, 
for the kind attention which furnished her with the 
American volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my 
own, since you have made her acquainted with much 
more of papa’s folly than she would otherwise have 
learned; for I have taken special care they should never 
see any of these things during their earlier years.” 

To return to the thread of my narrative. When Scott 
had got through his brief literary occupation, we set out 
on a ramble. The young ladies started to accompany us, 
but had not gone far when they met a poor old laborer 
and his distressed family, and turned back to take them 
to the house and relieve them. 

On passing the bounds of Abbotsford, we came upon a 
bleak-looking farm, with a forlorn crazy old manse, or 
farm-house, standing in naked desolation. This, how¬ 
ever, Scott told me was an ancient hereditary property 
called Lauckend, about as valuable as the patrimonial 
estate of Don Quixote, and which, in like manner, con¬ 
ferred an hereditary dignity upon its proprietor, who 
was a laird, and, though poor as a rat, prided himself 
upon his ancient blood, and the standing of his house. 


ABBOTSFORD. 


295 


He was accordingly called Lauckend, according to the 
Scottish custom of naming a man after his family estate, 
but he was more generally known through the country 
round by the name of Lauckie Long Legs, from the 
length of his limbs. While Scott was giving this account 
of him, we saw him at a distance striding along one of 
his fields, with his plaid fluttering about him, and he 
seemed well to deserve his appellation, for he looked all 
legs and tartan. 

Lauckie knew nothing of the world beyond his neigh¬ 
borhood. Scott told me, that, on returning to Abbots¬ 
ford from his visit to France, immediately after the war, 
he was called on by his neighbors generally, to inquire 
after foreign parts. Among the number, came Lauckie 
Long Legs and an old brother as ignorant as himself. 
They had many inquiries to make about the French, 
whom they seemed to consider some remote and semi- 
barbarous horde. “And what like are thae barbarians in 
their own country ? ” said Lauckie, “ can they write ?— 
can they cipher?” He was quite astonished to learn 
that they were nearly as much advanced in civilization as 
the gude folks of Abbotsford. 

After living for a long time in single blessedness, 
Lauckie all at once, and not long before my visit to the 
neighborhood, took it into his head to get married. The 
neighbors were all surprised; but the family connection, 
who were as proud as they were poor, were grievously 
scandalized, for they thought the young woman on whom 


296 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


he had set his mind quite beneath him. It was in vain, 
however, that they remonstrated on the misalliance he 
was about to make: he was not to be swayed from his 
determination. Arraying himself in his best, and sad¬ 
dling a gaunt steed that might have rivalled Rosinante, 
and placing a pillion behind his saddle, he departed to 
w r ed and bring home the humble lassie who was to be 
made mistress of the venerable hovel of Lauckend, and 
who lived in a village on the opposite side of the Tweed. 

A small event of the kind makes a great stir in a little 
quiet country neighborhood. The word soon circulated 
through the village of Melrose, and the cottages in its 
vicinity, that Lauckie Long Legs had gone over the 
Tweed to fetch home his bride. All the good folks as¬ 
sembled at the bridge to await his return. Lauckie, 
however, disappointed them; for he crossed the river at 
a distant ford, and conveyed his bride safe to his man¬ 
sion, without being perceived. 

Let me step forward in the course of events and relate 
the fate of poor Lauckie, as it was communicated to me a 
year or two afterwards in a letter by Scott. From the 
time of his marriage he had no longer any peace, owing 
to the constant intermeddlings of his relations, who 
would not permit him to be happy in his own way, but 
endeavored to set him at variance with his wife. Lauckie 
refused to credit any of their stories to her disadvantage; 
but the incessant warfare he had to wage in defence of 
her good name, wore out both flesh and spirit. His last 


ABBOTSFORD. 


297 


conflict was with his own brothers, in front of his pater¬ 
nal mansion. A furious scolding-match took place be¬ 
tween them; Lauckie made a vehement profession of 
faith in favor of her immaculate honesty, and then fell 
dead at the threshold of his own door. His person, his 
character, his name, his story, and his fate, entitled him 
to be immortalized in one of Scott’s novels, and I looked 
to recognize him in some of the succeeding works from 
his pen; but I looked in vain. 

After passing by the domains of honest Lauckie, 
Scott pointed out, at a distance, the Eildon stone. There 
in ancient days stood the Eildon tree, beneath which 
Thomas the Ehymer, according to popular tradition, 
dealt forth his prophecies, some of which still exist in 
antiquated ballads. 

Here we turned up a little glen with a small burn or 
brook whimpering and dashing along it, making an occa¬ 
sional waterfall, and overhung in some places with moun¬ 
tain-ash and weeping-birch. We are now, said Scott, 
treading classic, or rather fairy ground. This is the 
haunted glen of Thomas the Rhymer, where he met with 
the queen of fairy land; and this the bogle burn, or gob¬ 
lin brook, along which she rode on her dapple-gray pal¬ 
frey, with silver bells ringing at the bridle. 

“Here,” said he, pausing, “is Huntley Bank, on which 
Thomas the Rhymer lay musing and sleeping when he 
saw, or dreamt he saw, the queen of Elfland:— 


298 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


“True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; 

A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e; 

And there he saw a ladye bright, 

Come riding down by the Eildon tree. 

“ Her skirt was o’ the grass green silk. 

Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne; 

At ilka tett of her horse’s mane 
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.” 

Here Scott repeated several of the stanzas and recounted 
the circumstance of Thomas the Rhymer’s interview with 
the fairy, and his being transported by her to fairy 
land— 

“ And till seven years were gone and past, 

True Thomas on earth was never seen.” 

It is a fine old story, said he, and might be wrought up 
into a capital tale. 

Scott continued on, leading the way as usual, and 
limping up the wizard glen, talking as he went, but as 
his back was toward me, I could only hear the deep 
growling tones of his voice, like the low breathing of au 
organ, without distinguishing the words, until pausing 
and turning his face towards me, I found he was reciting 
some scrap of border minstrelsy about Thomas the 
Rhymer. This was continually the case in my ramblings 
with him about this storied neighborhood. His mind 
was fraught with the traditionary fictions connected with 
every object around him, and he would breathe it forth 


ABBOTSFORD . 


299 


as he went, apparently as much for his own gratification 
as for that of his companion. 

“Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 

But had its legend or its song.” 

His voice was deep and sonorous, he spoke with a Scot¬ 
tish accent, and with somewhat of the Northumbrian 
“burr,” which, to my mind, gave a doric strength and 
simplicity to his elocution. His recitation of poetry 
was, at times, magnificent. 

I think it was in the course of this ramble that my 
friend Hamlet, the black greyhound, got into a sad 
scrape. The dogs were beating about the glens and 
fields as usual, and had been for some time out of sight, 
when we heard a barking at some distance to the left. 
Shortly after we saw some sheep scampering on the 
hills, with the dogs after them. Scott applied to his lips 
the ivory whistle, always hanging at his button-hole, and 
soon called in the culprits, excepting Hamlet. Hasten¬ 
ing up a bank which commanded a view along a fold or 
hollow of the hills, we beheld the sable prince of Den¬ 
mark standing by the bleeding body of a sheep. The 
carcass was still warm, the throat bore marks of the 
fatal grip, and Hamlet’s muzzle was stained with blood. 
Never was culprit more completely caught in flagrante 
delictu. I supposed the doom of poor Hamlet to be 
sealed; for no higher offence can be committed by a dog 
in a country abounding with sheep-walks. Scott, how- 


300 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


ever, had a greater value for his dogs than for his sheep. 
They were his companions and friends. Hamlet, too, 
though an irregular, impertinent kind of youngster, was 
evidently a favorite. He would not for some time be¬ 
lieve it could be he who had killed the sheep. It must 
have been some cur of the neighborhood, that had made 
off on our approach, and left poor Hamlet in the lurch. 
Proofs, however, were too strong, and Hamlet was gen¬ 
erally condemned. “ Well, well,” said Scott, “ it’s partly 
my own fault. I have given up coursing for some time 
past, and the poor dog has had no chance after game to 
take the fire edge off of him. If he was put after a hare 
occasionally, he never would meddle with sheep.” 

I understood, afterwards, that Scott actually got a 
pony, and went out now and then coursing with Hamlet, 
who, in consequence, showed no further inclination for 
mutton. 

A further stroll among the hills brought us to what 
Scott pronounced the remains of a Roman camp, and as 
we sat upon a hillock which had once formed a part of 
the ramparts, he pointed out the traces of the lines and 
bulwarks, and the praetorium, and showed a knowledge 
of castrametation that would not have disgraced the anti¬ 
quarian Oldbuck himself. Indeed, various circumstances 
that I observed about Scott during my visit, concurred 
to persuade me that many of the antiquarian humors of 
Monkbarns were taken from his own richly compounded 


ABBOTSFORD. 


301 


character, and that some of the scenes and personages of 
that admirable novel were furnished by his immediate 
neighborhood. 

He gave me several anecdotes of a noted pauper named 
Andrew Gemmells, or Gammel, as it was pronounced, 
who had once flourished on the banks of Galla Water, 
immediately opposite Abbotsford, and whom he had seen 
and talked and joked with when a boy; and I instantly 
recognized the likeness of that mirror of philosophic 
vagabonds and Nestor of beggars, Edie Ochiltree. I was 
on the point of pronouncing the name and recognizing 
the portrait, when I recollected the incognito observed 
by Scott with respect to his novels, and checked myself; 
but it was one among many things that tended to con¬ 
vince me of his authorship. 

His picture of Andrew Gemmells exactly accorded 
with that of Edie as to his height, carriage, and soldier¬ 
like air, as well as his arch and sarcastic humor. His 
home, if home he had, was at Gallashiels ; but he went 
“ daundering ” about the country, along the green shaws 
and beside the burns, and was a kind of walking chroni¬ 
cle throughout the valleys of the Tweed, the Ettrick, and 
the Yarrow; carrying the gossip from house to house, 
commenting on the inhabitants and tlieir concerns, and 
never hesitating to give them a dry rub as to any of their 
faults or follies. 

A shrewd b'eggar like Andrew Gemmells, Scott added, 
who could sing the old Scotch airs, tell stories and tradi- 


302 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


tions, and gossip away the long winter evenings, was by 
no means an unwelcome visitor at a lonely manse or cot¬ 
tage. The children would run to welcome him, and place 
his stool in a warm corner of the ingle nook, and the old 
folks would receive him as a privileged guest. 

As to Andrew, he looked upon them all as a parson 
does upon his parishioners, and considered the alms he 
received as much his due as the other does his tithes. I 
rather think, added Scott, Andrew considered himself 
more of a gentleman than those who toiled for a living, 
and that he secretly looked down upon the painstaking 
peasants that fed and sheltered him. 

He had derived his aristocratical notions in some de¬ 
gree from being admitted occasionally to a precarious 
sociability with some of the small country gentry, who 
were sometimes in want of company to help while away 
the time. With these Andrew would now and then play 
at cards and dice, and he never lacked “ siller in pouch ” 
to stake on a game, which he did with the perfect air of 
a man to whom money was a matter of little moment > 
and no one could lose his money with more gentleman¬ 
like coolness. 

Among those who occasionally admitted him to this 
familiarity, was old John Scott of Galla, a man of family, 
who inhabited his paternal mansion of Torwoodlee. 
Some distinction of rank, however, was still kept up. 
The laird sat on the inside of the window and the beggar 
•n the outside, and they played cards on the sill. 


ABBOTSFORD . 


303 


Andrew now and then told the laird a piece of his 
mind very freely; especially on one occasion, when he 
had sold some of his paternal lands to build himself a 
larger house with the proceeds. The speech of honest 
Andrew smacks of the shrewdness of Edie Ochiltree. 

“ It’s a’ varra weel—it’s a’ varra weel, Torwoodlee,” 
said he ; “ but who would ha’ thought that your father’s 
son would ha’ sold two gude estates to build a shaw’s 
(cuckoo’s) nest on the side of a hill ? ” 

That day there was an arrival at Abbotsford of two 
English tourists: one a gentleman of fortune and landed 
estate, the other a young clergyman whom he appeared 
to have under his patronage, and to have brought with 
him as a travelling companion. 

The patron was one of those well-bred, commonplace 
gentlemen with which England is overrun. He had 
great deference for Scott, and endeavored to acquit him¬ 
self learnedly in his company, aiming continually at ab¬ 
stract disquisitions, for which Scott had little relish. 
The conversation of the latter, as usual, was studded 
with anecdotes and stories, some of them of great pith 
and humor: the well-bred gentleman was either too dull 
to feel their point, or too decorous to indulge in hearty 
merriment; the honest parson, on the contrary, who was 
not too refined to be happy, laughed loud and long at 
every joke, and enjoyed them with the zest of a man who 
has more merriment in his heart than coin in his pocket. 


304 


ORA TON MISCELLANY. 


After they were gone, some comments were made upon 
their different deportments. Scott spoke very respect¬ 
fully of the good breeding and measured manners of the 
man of wealth, but with a kindlier feeling of the honest 
parson, and the homely but hearty enjoyment with which 
he relished every pleasantry. “ I doubt,” said he, 
“whether the parson’s lot in life is not the best; if he 
cannot command as many of the good things of this 
world by his own purse as his patron can, he beats him 
all hollow in his enjoyment of them when set before 
him by others. Upon the whole,” added he, “ I rather 
think I prefer the honest parson’s good humor to his 
patron’s good breeding; I have a great regard for a 
hearty laugher.” 

He went on to speak of the great influx of English 
travellers, which of late years had inundated Scotland; 
and doubted whether they had not injured the old- 
fashioned Scottish character. “Formerly, they came 
here occasionally as sportsmen,” said he, “ to shoot 
moor-game, without any idea of looking at scenery; and 
they moved about the country in hardy simple style, 
coping with the country people in their own way; but 
now they come rolling about in their equipages, to see 
ruins, and spend money; and their lavish extravagance 
has played the vengeance with the common people. It 
has made them rapacious in their dealings with stran¬ 
gers, greedy after money, and extortionate in their de¬ 
mands for the most trivial services. Formerly,” con- 


ABBVTtfFOKIr. 


305 


tinned lie, “the poorer classes of onr people were com¬ 
paratively disinterested; they offered their services gra¬ 
tuitously, in promoting the amusement, or aiding the 
curiosity of strangers, and were gratified by the smallest 
compensation ; but now they make a trade of showing 
rocks and ruins, and are as greedy as Italian cicerones. 
They look upon the English as so many walking money¬ 
bags ; the more they are shaken and poked, the more 
they will leave behind them.” 

I told him that he had a great deal to answer for on 
that head, since it was the romantic associations he had 
thrown by his writings over so many out-of-the-way 
places in Scotland, that had brought in the influx of 
curious travellers. 

Scott laughed, and said he believed I might be in some 
measure in the right, as he recollected a circumstance in 
point. Being one time at Glenross, an old woman who 
kept a small inn, which had but little custom, was un¬ 
commonly officious in her attendance upon him, and 
absolutely incommoded him with her civilities. The 
secret at length came out. As he was about to depart, 
she addressed him with many curtsies, and said she 
understood he was the gentleman that had written a bon- 
nie book about Loch Katrine. She begged him to write 
a little about their lake also, for she understood his book 
had done the inn at Loch Katrine a muckle deal of good. 

On the following day I made an excursion with Scott 
and the young ladies to Dryburgh Abbey. We went in 
20 


306 


CRA TON MISCELL ANT. 


an open carriage, drawn by two sleek old black horses, 
for which Scott seemed to have an affection, as he had 
for every dumb animal that belonged to him. Our road 
lay through a variety of scenes, rich in poetical and his¬ 
torical associations, about most of which Scott had some¬ 
thing to relate. In one part of the drive he pointed to 
an old border keep, or fortress, on the summit of a naked 
hill, several miles off, which he called Smallholm Tower, 
and a rocky knoll on which it stood, the “ Sandy Knowe 
crags.” It was a place, he said, peculiarly dear to him, 
from the recollections of childhood. His grandfather 
had lived there in the old Smallholm Grange, or farm¬ 
house ; and he had been sent there, when but two years 
old, on account of his lameness, that he might have the 
benefit of the pure air of the hills, and be under the care 
of his grandmother and aunts. 

In the introduction of one of the cantos of “ Marmion,” 
he has depicted his grandfather, and the fireside of the 
farm-house; and has given an amusing picture of himself 
in his boyish years. 

“ Still with vain fondness could I trace 
Anew each kind familiar face, 

That brightened at our evening fire; 

From the thatched mansion’s gray-haired sire, 

Wise without learning, plain and good, 

And sprung of Scotland’s gentler blood; 

Whose eye in age, quick, clear and keen, 

Showed what in youth its glance had been; 


ABBOTSFORD. 


307 


Whose doom discording neighbors sought. 
Content with equity unbought; 

To him the venerable priest, 

Our frequent and familiar guest, 

Whose life and manners well could paint 
Alike the student and the saint; 

Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke 
With gambol rude and timeless joke; 

For I was wayward, bold, and wild, 

A self-willed imp, a grandame’s child; 
But half a plague, and half a jest, 

Was still endured, beloved, carest.*' 


It was, he said, during his residence at Smallholm 
crags, that he first imbibed his passion for legendary 
tales, border traditions, and old national songs and bal¬ 
lads. His grandmother and aunts were well versed in 
that kind of lore so current in Scottish country life. 
They used to recount them in long, gloomy winter days, 
and about the ingle nook at night, in conclave with their 
gossip visitors; and little Walter would sit and listen 
with greedy ear; thus taking into his infant mind the 
seeds of many a splendid fiction. 

There was an old shepherd, he said, in the service of 
the family, who used to sit under the sunny wall, and 
tell marvellous stories, and recite old-time ballads, as he 
knitted stockings. Scott used to be wheeled out in his 
chair, in fine weather, and would sit beside the old man, 
and listen to him for hours. 

The situation of Sandy Knowe was favorable both for 


308 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


story-teller and listener. It commanded a wide view 
over all the border country, with its feudal towers, its 
haunted glens, and wizard streams. As the old shep¬ 
herd told his tales, he could point out the very scene of 
action. Thus, before Scott could walk, he was made 
familiar with the scenes of his future stories; they were 
all seen as through a magic medium, and took that tinge 
of romance which they ever after retained in his imagi¬ 
nation. From the height of Sandy Knowe he may be 
said to have had the first look-out upon the promised 
land of his future glory. 

On referring to Scott’s works, I find many of the cir¬ 
cumstances related in this conversation about the old 
tower, and the boyish scenes connected with it, recorded 
in the introduction to “Marmion,” already cited. This 
was frequently the case with Scott; incidents and feel¬ 
ings that had appeared in his writings, were apt to be 
mingled up in his conversation, for they had been taken 
from what he had witnessed and felt in real life, and 
were connected with those scenes among which he lived, 
and moved, and had his being. I make no scruple at 
quoting the passage relative to the tower, though it 
repeats much of the foregone imagery, and with vastly 
superior effect. 

“ Thus, while I ape the measure wild 
Of tales that charmed me yet a child, 

Rude though they be, still with the chime 
Return the thoughts of early time; 


ABBOTSFORD. 


309 


And feelings roused in life’s first day, 

Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. 

Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, 
Which charmed my fancy’s wakening hour. 
Though no broad river swept along 
To claim perchance heroic song; 

Though sighed no groves in summer gale 
To prompt of love a softer tale; 

Though scarce a puny streamlet’s speed 
Claimed homage from a shepherd’s reed; 

Yet was poetic impulse given, 

By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 

It was a barren scene, and wild, 

WTiere naked cliffs were rudely piled; 

But ever and anon between 
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green; 

And well the lonely infant knew 
Recesses where the wall-flower grew. 

And honeysuckle loved to crawl 
Up the low crag and ruined wall. 

I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade 
The sun in all his round surveyed; 

And still I thought that shattered tower 
The mightiest work of human power; 

And marvelled as the aged hind 

With some strange tale bewitched my mind 

Of forayers, who, with headlong force, 

Down from that strength had spurred their horse. 
Their southern rapine to renew, 

Far in the distant Cheviot’s blue, k 
And, home returning, filled the hall 
With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl— 

Methought that still with tramp and clang 
The gateway’s broken arches rang; 


310 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Methought grim features, seamed with scars 
Glared through the window’.* rusty bars. 

And ever by the winter hearth, 

Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, 

Of lovers’ slights, of ladies’ charms, 

Of witches’ spells, of warriors’ arms ; 

Of patriot battles won of old 
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; 

Of later fields of feud and fight, 

When pouring from the Highland height, 

The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 

Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 

While stretched at length upon the floor, 

Again I fought each combat o’er, 

Pebbles and shells, in order laid, 

The mimic ranks of war displayed; 

And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, 

And still the scattered Southron fled before.” 

Scott eyed the distant height of Sandy Knowe with 
an earnest gaze as we rode along, and said he had often 
thought of buying the place, repairing the old tower, 
and making it his residence. He has in some measure, 
however, paid off his early debt of gratitude, in cloth¬ 
ing with poetic and romantic associations, by his tale 
of “ The Eve of St. John.” It is to be hoped that 
those who actually possess so interesting a monument 
of Scott’s early days, will preserve it from further dilapi¬ 
dation. 

Not far from Sandy Knowe, Scott pointed out another 
old border hold, standing on the summit of a hill, which 


ABBOTSFORD. 


311 


had been a kind of enchanted castle to him in his boy¬ 
hood. It was the tower of Bemerside, the baronial res¬ 
idence of the Haigs, or De Hagas, one of the oldest 
families of the border. “ There had seemed to him,” 
he said, “ almost a wizard spell hanging over it, in con¬ 
sequence of a prophecy of Thomas the Rhymer, in which, 
in his young days, he most potently believed 

“Betide, betide, whate’er betide, 

Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside. ,, 

Scott added some particulars which showed that, in 
the present instance, the venerable Thomas had not 
proved a false prophet, for it was a noted fact, that, amid 
all the changes and chances of the border—through all 
the feuds, and forays, and sackings, and burnings, which 
had reduced most of the castles to ruins, and the proud 
families that once possessed them to poverty, the tower 
of Bemerside still remained unscathed, and was still the 
stronghold of the ancient family of Haig. 

Prophecies, however, often insure their own fulfil¬ 
ment. It is very probable that the prediction of Thomas 
the Rhymer has linked the Haigs to their tower, as their 
rock of safety, and has induced them to cling to it, al¬ 
most superstitiously, through hardships and inconven¬ 
iences that would otherwise have caused its abandon¬ 
ment. 

I afterwards saw, at Dryburgh Abbey, the burying- 
place of this predestinated and tenacious family, the in- 


812 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


scription of which showed the value they set upon their 
antiquity:— 

“ Locus Sepulturae, 

Antiquessimae Familiaa 
De Haga 
De Bemerside.” 

In reverting to the days of his childhood, Scott ob¬ 
served that the lameness which had disabled him in in¬ 
fancy gradually decreased; he soon acquired strength in 
his limbs, and though he always limped, he became, even 
in boyhood, a great walker. He used frequently to stroll 
from home and wander about the country for days to¬ 
gether, picking up all kinds of local gossip, and observ¬ 
ing popular scenes and characters. His father used to be 
vexed with him for this wandering propensity, and, shak¬ 
ing his head, would say he fancied the boy would make 
nothing but a pedler. As he grew older, he became a 
keen sportsman, and passed much of his time hunting 
and shooting. His field-sports led him into the most 
wild and unfrequented parts of the country, and in this 
way he picked up much of that local knowledge which 
he has since evinced in his writings. 

His first visit to Loch Katrine, he said, was in his boy¬ 
ish days, on a shooting excursion. The island, which he 
has made the romantic residence of the Lady of the 
Lake, was then garrisoned by an old man and his wife. 
Their house was vacant: they had put the key under the 
door, and were absent fishing. It was at that time a 


ABBOTSFORD. 


313 


peaceful residence, but became afterwards a resort of 
smugglers, until they were ferreted out. 

In after-years, when Scott began to turn this local 
knowledge to literary account, he revisited many of those 
scenes of his early ramblings, and endeavored to secure 
the fugitive remains of the traditions and songs that had 
charmed his boyhood. When collecting materials for his 
“ Border Minstrelsy,” he used, he said, to go from cot¬ 
tage to cottage and make the old wives repeat all they 
knew, if but two lines; and by putting these scraps to¬ 
gether, he retrieved many a fine characteristic old ballad 
or tradition from oblivion. 

I regret to say that I can recollect scarce anything of 
our visit to Dry burgh Abbey. It is on the estate of the 
Earl of Buchan. The religious edifice is a mere ruin, 
rich in Gothic antiquities, but especially interesting to 
Scott, from containing the family vault, and the tombs 
and monuments of his ancestors. He appeared to feel 
much chagrin at their being in the possession, and sub¬ 
ject to the intermeddlings of the Earl, who was repre¬ 
sented as a nobleman of an eccentric character. The 
latter, however, set great value on these sepulchral rel¬ 
ics, and had expressed a lively anticipation of one day 
or other having the honor of burying Scott, and add¬ 
ing his monument to the collection, which he intended 
should be worthy of the “ mighty minstrel of the north,” 
—a prospective compliment which was by no means rel¬ 
ished by the object of it. 


314 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


One of my pleasant rambles with Scott, about the 
neighborhood of Abbotsford, was taken in company with 
Mr. William Laidlaw, the steward of his estate. This 
was a gentleman for whom Scott entertained a particular 
value. He had been born to a competency, had been 
well educated, his mind was richly stored with varied 
information, and he was a man of sterling moral worth. 
Having been reduced by misfortune, Scott had got him 
to take charge of his estate. He lived at a small farm on 
the hill-side above Abbotsford, and was treated by Scott 
as a cherished and confidential friend, rather than a de¬ 
pendant. 

As the day was showery, Scott was attended by one 
of his retainers, named Tommie Purdie, who carried his 
plaid, and who deserves especial mention. Sophia Scott 
used to call him her father’s grand vizier, and she gave a 
playful account one evening, as she was hanging on her 
father’s arm, of the consultations which he and Tommie 
used to have about matters relative to farming. Purdie 
was tenacious of his opinions, and he and Scott would 
have long disputes in front of the house, as to something 
that was to be done on the estate, until the latter, fairly 
tired out, would abandon the ground and the argument, 
exclaiming, “ Well, well, Tom, have it your own way.” 

After a time, however, Purdie would present himself 
at the door of the parlor, and observe, “ I ha’ been think¬ 
ing over the matter, and, upon the whole, I think I’ll 
take your honor’s advice.” 


ABBOTSFORD. 


315 


Scott laughed heartily when this anecdote was told of 
him. “It was with him and Tom,” he said, “as it was 
with an old laird and a pet servant, whom he had in¬ 
dulged until he was positive beyond all endurance. 
‘This won’t do!’ cried the old laird, in a passion, ‘we 
can’t live together any longer—we must part.’ ‘An’ 
where the deil does your honor mean to go?’ replied 
the other.” 

I would, moreover, observe of Tom Purdie, that he 
was a firm believer in ghosts, and warlocks, and all kinds 
of old wives’ fable. He was a religious man, too, min¬ 
gling a little degree of Scottish pride in his devotion; 
for though his salary was but twenty pounds a year, he 
had managed to afford seven pounds for a family Bible. 
It is true, he had one hundred pounds clear of the 
world, and was looked up to by his comrades as a man of 
property. 

In the course of our morning’s walk we stopped at a 
small house belonging to one of the laborers on the 
estate. The object of Scott’s visit was to inspect a relic 
which had been digged up in the Roman camp, and 
which, if I recollect right, he pronounced to have been a 
tongs. It was produced by the cottager’s wife, a ruddy, 
healthy-looking dame, whom Scott addressed by the 
name of Ailie. As he stood regarding the relic, turning 
it round and round, and making comments upon it, half 
grave, half comic, with the cottage group around him, 
all joining occasionally in the colloquy, the inimitable 


316 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


character of Monkbarns was again brought to mind, and 
I seemed to see before me that prince of antiquarians 
and humorists holding forth to his unlearned and unbe¬ 
lieving neighbors. 

Whenever Scott touched, in this way, upon local anti¬ 
quities, and in all his familiar conversations about local 
traditions and superstitions, there was always a sly and 
quiet humor running at the bottom of his discourse, and 
playing about his countenance, as if he sported with the 
subject. It seemed to me as if he distrusted his own 
enthusiasm, and was disposed to droll upon his own 
humors and peculiarities, yet, at the same time, a poetic 
gleam in his eye would show that he really took a strong 
relish and interest in them. “ It was a pity,” he said, 
“ that antiquarians were generally so dry, for the sub¬ 
jects they handled were rich in historical and poetic 
recollections, in picturesque details, in quaint and heroic 
characteristics, and in all kinds of curious and obsolete 
ceremonials. They are always groping among the rarest 
materials for poetry, but they have no idea of turning 
them to poetic use. Now every fragment from old times 
has, in some degree, its story with it, or gives an inkling 
of something characteristic of the circumstances and 
manners of its day, and so sets the imagination at work.” 

For my own part, I never met with antiquarian so 
delightful, either in his writings or his conversation ; and 
the quiet subacid humor that was prone to mingle in his 
disquisitions, gave them, to me, a peculiar and exquisite 


ABBOTSFORD. 


317 


flavor. But he seemed, in fact, to undervalue everything 
that concerned himself. The play of his genius was so 
easy that he was unconscious of its mighty power, and 
made light of those sports of intellect that shamed the 
efforts and labors of other minds. 

Our ramble this' morning took us again up the Rhynp 
er’s Glen, and by Huntley Bank, and Huntley Wood, 
and the silver waterfall overhung with weeping-birches 
and mountain-ashes, those delicate and beautiful trees 
which grace the green shaws and burnsides of Scotland. 
The heather, too, that closely-woven robe of Scottish 
landscape which covers the nakedness of its hills and 
mountains, tinted the neighborhood with soft and rich 
colors. As we ascended the glen, the prospects opened 
upon us ; Melrose, with its towers and pinnacles, lay be¬ 
low ; beyond was the Eildon hills, the Cowden Knowes, 
the Tweed, the Galla Water, and all the storied vicinity; 
the whole landscape varied by gleams of sunshine and 
driving showers. 

Scott, as usual, took the lead, limping along with great 
activity, and in joyous mood, giving scraps of border 
rhymes and border stories; two or three times in the 
course of our walk there were drizzling showers, which I 
supposed would put an end to our ramble, but my com¬ 
panions trudged on as unconcernedly as if it had been 
fine weather. 

At length, I asked whether we had not better seek 
some shelter. “ True,” said Scott, “ I did not recollect 


318 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


that yon were not accustomed to our Scottish mists. 
This is a lachrymose climate, evermore showering. We, 
however, are children of the mist, and must not mind a 
little whimpering of the clouds any more than a man 
must mind the weeping of an hysterical wife. As you 
are not accustomed to be wet through, as a matter of 
course, in a morning’s walk, we will bide a bit under 
the lee of this bank until the shower is over.” Taking 
his seat under shelter of a thicket, he called to his man 
George for his tartan; then turning to me, “ Come,” said 
he, “ come under my plaidy, as the old song goes; ” so, 
making me nestle down beside him, he wrapped a part of 
the plaid round me, and took me, as he said, under his 
wing. 

While we were thus nestled together, he pointed to a 
hole in the opposite bank of the glen. That, he said, 
was the hole of an old gray badger, who was, doubtless, 
snugly housed in this bad weather. Sometimes he saw 
him at the entrance of his hole, like a hermit at the door 
of his cell, telling his beads, or reading a homily. He 
had a great respect for the venerable anchorite, and 
would not suffer him to be disturbed. He was a kind of 
successor to Thomas the Ehymer, and perhaps might be 
Thomas himself returned from fairy land, but still under 
fairy spell. 

Some accident turned the conversation upon Hogg, the 
poet, in which Laidlaw, who was seated beside us, took a 
part. Hogg had once been a shepherd in the service of 


ABBOTSFORD. 


319 


his father, and Laidlaw gave many interesting anecdotes 
of him, of which I now retain no recollection. They used 
to tend the sheep together when Laidlaw was a boy, and 
Hogg would recite the first struggling conceptions of his 
muse. At night, when Laidlaw was quartered comfort¬ 
ably in bed, in the farm-house, poor Hogg would take to 
the shepherd’s hut, in the field on the hill-side, and there 
lie awake for hours together, and look at the stars and 
make poetry, which he would repeat the next day to his 
companion. 

Scott spoke in warm terms of Hogg, and repeated 
passages from his beautiful poem of Kelmeny, to which 
he gave great and well-merited praise. He gave, also, 
some amusing anecdotes of Hogg and his publisher, 
Blackwood, who was at that time just rising into the 
bibliographical importance which he has since enjoyed. 

Hogg, in one of his poems, I believe the “ Pilgrims of 
the Sun,” had dabbled a little in metaphysics, and, like 
his heroes, had got into the clouds. Blackwood, who 
began to affect criticism, argued stoutly with him as to 
the necessity of omitting or elucidating some obscure 
passage. Hogg was immovable. 

“ But, man,” said Blackwood, “ I dinna ken what ye 
mean in this passage.” — “ Hout tout, man,” replied 
Hogg, impatiently, “ I dinna ken always what I mean 
mysel’.” There is many a metaphysical poet in the same 
predicament with honest Hogg. 

Scott promised to invite the Shepherd to Abbotsford 


320 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


during my visit, and I anticipated much gratification in 
meeting with him, from the account I had received of his 
character and manners, and the great pleasure I had 
derived from his works. Circumstances, however, pre¬ 
vented Scott from performing his promise; and to my 
great regret I left Scotland without seeing one of its 
most original and national characters. 

When the weather held up, we continued our walk 
until we came to a beautiful sheet of water, in the bosom 
of the mountain, called, if I recollect right, the Lake of 
Cauldshiel. Scott prided himself much upon this little 
Mediterranean sea in his dominions, and hoped I was 
not too much spoiled by our great lakes in America to 
relish it. He proposed to take me out to the centre *of it, 
to a fine point of view: for which purpose we embarked 
in a small boat, which had been put on the lake by his 
neighbor, Lord Somerville. As I was about to step on 
board, I observed in large letters on one of the benches, 
“Search No. 2.” I paused for a moment and repeated 
the inscription aloud, trying to recollect something I 
had heard or read to which it alluded. “Pshaw,” cried 
Scott, “it is only some of Lord Somerville’s nonsense;— 
get in!” In an instant scenes in the “Antiquary” con¬ 
nected with “ Search No. 1,” flashed upon my mind. 
“Ah! I remember now,” said I, and with a laugh took 
my seat, but adverted no more to the circumstance. 

We had a pleasant row about the lake, which com¬ 
manded some pretty scenery. The most interesting cir- 


ABBOTSFORD. 


321 


cumstance connected with it, however, according to 
Scott, was, that it was haunted by a bogle in the shape 
of a water-bull, which lived in the deep parts, and now 
and then came forth upon dry land and made a tremen¬ 
dous roaring, that shook the very hills. This story had 
been current in the vicinity from time immemorial;— 
there was a man living who declared he had seen the 
bull, — and he was believed by many of his simple 
neighbors. “ I don’t choose to contradict the tale,” 
said Scott, “ for I am willing to have my lake stocked 
with any fish, flesh, or fowl that my neighbors think 
proper to put into it; and these old wives’ fables are a 
kind of property in Scotland that belong to the estates 
and go with the soil. Our streams and lochs are like 
the rivers and pools in Germany, that have all their 
Wasser-Nixen, or water-witches, and I have a fancy for 
these kind of amphibious bogles and hobgoblins.” 

Scott went on, after we had landed, to make many 
remarks, mingled with picturesque anecdotes concerning 
the fabulous beings with which the Scotch were apt to 
people the wild streams and lochs that occur in the 
solemn and lonely scenes of their mountains; and to 
compare them with similar superstitions among the 
northern nations of Europe; but Scotland, he said, was 
above all other countries for this wild and vivid progeny 
of the fancy, from the nature of the scenery, the misty 
magnificence and vagueness of the climate, the wild and 


322 


CRA YON MISCELLANY. 


gloomy events of its history; the clannish divisions of 
its people; their local feelings, notions, and prejudices; 
the individuality of their dialect, in which all kinds of 
odd and peculiar notions were incorporated; by the se¬ 
cluded life of their mountaineers; the lonely habits of 
their pastoral people, much of whose time was passed 
on the solitary hill-sides; their traditional songs, which 
clothed every rock and stream with old-world stories, 
handed down from age to age, and generation to genera¬ 
tion. The Scottish mind, he said, was made up of poetry 
and strong common sense ; and the very strength of the 
latter gave perpetuity and luxuriance to the former. It 
was a strong tenacious soil, into which, when once a seed 
of poetry fell, it struck deep root and brought forth 
abundantly. “ You will never weed these popular stories 
and songs and superstitions out of Scotland,” said he. 
‘‘It is not so much that the people believe in them, 
as that they delight in them. They belong to the native 
hills and streams of which they are fond, and to the his¬ 
tory of their forefathers, of which they are proud.” 

“ It would do your heart good,” continued he, “ to see 
a number of our poor country people seated round the 
ingle nook, which is generally capacious enough, and 
passing the long dark dreary winter nights listening to 
some old wife, or strolling gaberlunzie, dealing out auld- 
world stories about bogles and warlocks, or about raids 
and forays, and border skirmishes ; or reciting some bal¬ 
lad stuck full of those fighting names that stir up a true 


ABBOTSFORD. 


323 


Scotchman’s blood like the sound of a trumpet. These 
traditional tales and ballads have lived for ages in mere 
oral circulation, being passed from father to son, or 
rather from grandam to grandchild, and are a kind of 
hereditary property of the poor peasantry, of which it 
would be hard to deprive them, as they have not circu¬ 
lating libraries to supply them with works of fiction in 
their place.” 

I do not pretend to give the precise words, but, as 
nearly as I can from scanty memorandums and vague 
recollections, the leading ideas of Scott. I am constantly 
sensible, however, how far I fall short of his copiousness 
and richness. 

He went on to speak of the elves and sprites, so fre¬ 
quent in Scottish legend. “ Our fairies, however,” said 
he, “ though they dress in green, and gambol by moon¬ 
light about the banks, and shaws, and burnsides, are not 
such pleasant little folks as the English fairies, but are 
apt to bear more of the warlock in their natures, and to 
play spiteful tricks. When I was a boy, I used to look 
wistfully at the green hillocks that were said to be 
haunted by fairies, and felt sometimes as if I should like 
to lie down by them and sleep, and be carried off to 
Fairy Land, only that I did not like some of the cantrips 
which used now and then to be played off upon visitors.” 

Here Scott recounted, in graphic style, and with much 
humor, a little story which used to be current in the 
neighborhood, of an honest burgess of Selkirk, who, be- 


324 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


ing at work upon the hill of Peatlaw, fell asleep upon 
one of these “ fairy knowes,” or hillocks. When he 
awoke, he rubbed his eyes and gazed about him with 
astonishment, for he was in the market-place of a great 
city, with a crowd of people bustling about him, not one 
of whom he knew. At length he accosted a by-stander, 
and asked him the name of the place. “ Hout, man,” re¬ 
plied the other, “ are ye in the heart o’ Glasgow, and 
speer the name of it ? ” The poor man was astonished, 
and would not believe either ears or eyes; he insisted 
that he had laid down to sleep but half an hour before 
on the Peatlaw, near Selkirk. He came wellnigh being 
taken up for a madman, when, fortunately, a Selkirk man 
came by, who knew him, and took charge of him, and 
conducted him back to his native place. Here, however, 
he was likely to fare no better, when he spoke of having 
been whisked in his sleep from the Peatlaw to Glasgow. 
The truth of the matter at length came out: his coat, 
which he had taken off when at work on the Peatlaw, 
was found lying near a “ fairy knowe ” ; and his bonnet, 
which was missing, was discovered on the weathercock 
of Lanark steeple. So it was as clear as day that he had 
been carried through the air by the fairies while he was 
sleeping, and his bonnet had been blown off by the way. 

I give this little story but meagrely from a scanty 
memorandum; Scott has related it in somewhat different 
style in a note to one of his poems; but in narration these 
anecdotes derived their chief zest from the quiet but 


ABBOTSFORD. 


325 


delightful humor, the bonhomie with which he seasoned 
them, and the sly glance of the eye from under his bushy 
eyebrows, with which they were accompanied. 

That day at dinner we had Mr. Laidlaw and his wife, 
and a female friend who accompanied them. The latter 
was a very intelligent, respectable person, about the mid¬ 
dle age, and was treated with particular attention and 
courtesy by Scott. Our dinner was a most agreeable 
one; for the guests were evidently cherished visitors to 
the house, and felt that they were appreciated. 

When they were gone, Scott spoke of them in the 
most cordial manner. “ I wished to show you,” said he, 
“ some of our really excellent, plain Scotch people ; not 
fine gentlemen and ladies, for such you can meet every¬ 
where, and they are everywhere the same. The char¬ 
acter of a nation is not to be learnt from its fine folks.” 

He then went on with a particular eulogium on the 
lady who had accompanied the Laidlaws. She was the 
daughter, he said, of a poor country clergyman, who had 
died in debt, and left her an orphan and destitute. Hav¬ 
ing had a good plain education, she immediately set up 
a child’s school, and had soon a numerous flock under 
her care, by which she earned a decent maintenance. 
That, however, was not her main object. Her first care 
was to pay off her father’s debts, that no ill word or ill 
will might rest upon his memory. This, by dint of 
Scottish economy, backed by filial reverence and pride. 


326 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


she accomplished, though in the effort she subjected her¬ 
self to every privation. Not content with this, she in 
certain instances refused to take pay for the tuition of 
the children of some of her neighbors, who had be¬ 
friended her father in his need, and had since fallen into 
poverty. “ In a word,” added Scott, “ she is a fine old 
Scotch girl; and I delight in her, more than in many a 
fine lady I have known,—and I have known many of the 
finest.” 

It is time, however, to draw this rambling narrative to 
a close. Several days were passed by me, in the way I 
have attempted to describe, in almost constant, familiar, 
and joyous conversation with Scott; it was as if I were 
admitted to a social communion with Shakespeare, for it 
was with one of a kindred, if not equal genius. Every 
night I retired with my mind filled with delightful recol¬ 
lections of the day, and every morning I rose with the 
certainty of new enjoyment. The days thus spent I shall 
ever look back to as among the very happiest of my life, 
for I was conscious at the time of being happy. 

The only sad moment that I experienced at Abbots¬ 
ford was that of my departure; but it was cheered with 
the prospect of soon returning; for I had promised, after 
making a tour in the Highlands, to come and pass a few 
more days on the banks of the Tweed, when Scott in¬ 
tended to invite Hogg the poet to meet me. I took a 
kind farewell of the family, with each of whom I had 
been highly pleased; if I have refrained from dwelling 


ABBOTSFORD. 


327 


particularly on their several characters, and giving anec¬ 
dotes of them individually, it is because I consider them 
shielded by the sanctity of domestic life: Scott, on the 
contrary, belongs to history. As he accompanied me on 
foot, however, to a small gate on the confines of his 
premises, I could not refrain from expressing the en¬ 
joyment I had experienced in his domestic circle, and 
passing some warm eulogiums on the young folks from 
whom I had just parted. I shall never forget his reply. 
“ They have kind hearts,” said he, “ and that is the main 
point as to human happiness. They love one another, 
poor things, which is everything in domestic life. The 
best wish I can make you, my friend,” added he, laying 
his hand upon my shoulder, “ is, that when you return to 
your own country you may get married, and have a 
family of young bairns about you. If you are happy, 
there they are to share your happiness—and if you are 
otherwise—there they are to comfort you.” 

By this time we had reached the gate, when he halted, 
and took my hand. “I will not say farewell,” said he, 
“for it is always a painful word, but I will say, come 
again. When you have made your tour to the Highlands, 
come here and give me a few more days—but come when 
you please, you will always find Abbotsford open to you, 
and a hearty welcome.” 

I have thus given, in a rude style, my main recollec¬ 
tions of what occurred during my sojourn at Abbotsford, 


328 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


and I feel mortified that I can give but sucli meagre, 
scattered, and colorless details of wliat was so copious, 
rich, and varied. During several days that I passed 
there, Scott was in admirable vein. From early morn 
until dinner-time he was rambling about, showing me the 
neighborhood, and during dinner, and until late at night, 
engaged in social conversation. No time was reserved 
for himself; he seemed as if his only occupation was to 
entertain me; and yet I was almost an entire stranger to 
him, one of whom he knew nothing but an idle book I 
had written, and which, some years before, had amused 
him. But such was Scott—he appeared to have nothing 
to do but lavish his time, attention, and conversation 
on those around. It was difficult to imagine what time 
he found to write those volumes that were incessantly 
issuing from the press; all of which, too, were of a 
nature to require reading and research. I could not find 
that his life was ever otherwise than a life of leisure and 
hap-hazard recreation, such as it was during my visit. 
He scarce ever balked a party of pleasure, or a sporting 
excursion, and rarely pleaded his own concerns as an 
excuse for rejecting those of others. During my visit I 
heard of other visitors who had preceded me, and who 
must have kept him occupied for many days, and I have 
had an opportunity of knowing the course of his daily life 
for some time subsequently. Not long after my depart¬ 
ure from Abbotsford, my friend Wilkie arrived there, to 
paint a picture of the Scott family. He found the house 


ABBOTSFORD. 


329 


full of guests. Scott’s whole time was taken up in riding 
and driving about the country, or in social conversation 
at home. “ All this time,” said Wilkie to me, “ I did not 
presume to ask Mr. Scott to sit for his portrait, for I saw 
he had not a moment to spare; I waited for the guests to 
go away, but as fast as one went another arrived, and so 
it continued for several days, and with each set he was 
completely occupied. At length all went off, and we 
were quiet. I thought, however, Mr. Scott will now shut 
himself up among his books and papers, for he has to 
make up for lost time; it won’t do for me to ask him now 
to sit for his picture. Laidlaw, who managed his estate, 
came in, and Scott turned to him, as I supposed, to 
consult about business. ‘ Laidlaw,’ said he, ‘ to-morrow 
morning we’ll go across the water and take the dogs with 
us: there’s a place where I think we shall be able to find 
a hare.’ 

“ In short,” added Wilkie, “ I found that instead of 
business, he was thinking only of amusement, as if he 
had nothing in the world to occupy him ; so I no longer 
feared to intrude upon him.” 

The conversation of Scott was frank, hearty, pictu¬ 
resque, and dramatic. During the time of my visit he 
inclined to the comic rather than the grave, in his anec¬ 
dotes and stories, and such, I was told, was his general 
inclination. He relished a joke, or a trait of humor in 
social intercourse, and laughed with right good will. He 
talked not for effect, nor display, but from the flow of his 


330 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


spirits, the stores of his memory, and the vigor of his 
imagination. He had a natural turn for narration, and 
his narratives and descriptions were without effort, yet 
wonderfully graphic. He placed the scene before you 
like a picture ; he gave the dialogue with the appropriate 
dialect or peculiarities, and described the appearance 
and characters of his personages with that spirit and 
felicity evinced in his writings. Indeed, his conversa¬ 
tion reminded me continually of his novels; and it 
seemed to me, that, during the whole time I was with 
him, he talked enough to fill volumes, and that they 
could not have been filled more delightfully. 

He was as good a listener as talker, appreciating every¬ 
thing that others said, however humble might be their 
rank or pretensions, and was quick to testify his percep¬ 
tion of any point in their discourse. He arrogated noth¬ 
ing to himself, but was perfectly unassuming and unpre¬ 
tending, entering with heart and soul into the business, 
or pleasure, or, I had almost said, folly, of the hour and 
the company. No one’s concerns, no one’s thoughts, no 
one’s opinions, no one’s tastes and pleasures seemed 
beneath him. He made himself so thoroughly the com¬ 
panion of those with whom he happened to be, that they 
forgot for a time his vast superiority, and only recol¬ 
lected and wondered, when all was over, that it was 
Scott with whom they had been on such familiar terms, 
and in whose society they had felt so perfectly at their 


ease. 


ABBOTSFORD. 


331 


It was delightful to observe the generous spirit in 
which he spoke of all his literary contemporaries, quot¬ 
ing the beauties of their works, and this, too, with re¬ 
spect to persons with whom he might have been sup¬ 
posed to be at variance in literature or politics. Jeffrey, 
it was thought, had ruffled his plumes in one of his re¬ 
views, yet Scott spoke of him in terms of high and warm 
eulogy, both as an author and as a man. 

His humor in conversation, as in his works, was genial 
and free from all causticity. He had a quick perception 
of faults and foibles, but he looked upon poor human 
nature with an indulgent eye, relishing what was good 
and pleasant, tolerating what was frail, and pitying what 
was evil. It is this beneficent spirit which gives such 
an air of bonhomie to Scott’s humor throughout all his 
works. He played with the foibles and errors of his fel¬ 
low-beings, and presented them in a thousand whimsical 
and characteristic lights, but the kindness and generosity 
of his nature would not allow him to be a satirist. I do 
not recollect a sneer throughout his conversation any 
more than there is throughout his works. 

Such is a rough sketch of Scott, as I saw him in pri¬ 
vate life, not merely at the time of the visit here nar¬ 
rated, but in the casual intercourse of subsequent years. 
Of his public character and merits all the world can 
judge. His works have incorporated themselves with 
the thoughts and concerns of the whole civilized world, 
for a quarter of a century, and have had a controlling 


332 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


influence over the age in which he lived. But when did 
a human being ever exercise an influence more salutary 
and benignant? Who is there that, on looking back 
over a great portion of his life, does not find the genius 
of Scott administering to his pleasures, beguiling his 
cares, and soothing his lonely sorrows ? Who does not 
still regard his works as a treasury of pure enjoyment, 
an armory to which to resort in time of need, to find 
weapons with which to fight off the evils and the griefs 
of life? For my own part, in periods of dejection, I 
have hailed the announcement of a new work from his 
pen as an earnest of certain pleasure in store for me, 
and have looked forward to it as a traveller in a waste 
looks to a green spot at a distance, where he feels as¬ 
sured of solace and refreshment. When I consider how 
much he has thus contributed to the better hours of my 
past existence, and how independent his works still 
make me, at times, of all the world for my enjoyment, 
I bless my stars that cast my lot in his days, to be thus 
cheered and gladdened by the outpourings of his genius. 
I consider it one of the greatest advantages that I have 
derived from my literary career, that it has elevated me 
into genial communion with such a spirit; and as a trib¬ 
ute of gratitude for his friendship, and veneration for 
his memory, I cast this humble stone upon his cairn, 
which will soon, I trust, be piled aloft with the contri¬ 
bution of abler hands. 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


Newstead Abbey. 


HISTORICAL NOTICE. 

EING about to give a few sketches taken during 
a three weeks’ sojourn in the ancestral mansion 
of the late Lord Byron, I think it proper to 
premise some brief particulars concerning its history. 

Newstead Abbey is one of the finest specimens in exist¬ 
ence of those quaint and romantic piles, half castle, half 
convent, which remain as monuments of the olden times 
of England. It stands, too, in the midst of a legendary 
neighborhood; being in the heart of Sherwood Forest, 
and surrounded by the haunts of Eobin Hood and his 
band of outlaws, so famous in ancient ballad and nursery 
tale. It is true, the forest scarcely exists but in name, 
and the tract of country over which it once extended its 
broad solitudes and shades is now an open and smiling 
region, cultivated with parks and farms, and enlivened 
with villages. 

Newstead, which probably once exerted a monastic 

335 








336 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


sway over this region, and controlled the consciences of 
the rude foresters, was originally a priory, founded in 
the latter part of the twelfth century, by Henry II., at 
the time when he sought, by building of shrines and 
convents, and by other acts of external piety, to expiate 
the murder of Thomas a Becket. The priory was dedi¬ 
cated to God and the Virgin, and was inhabited by a fra¬ 
ternity of canons regular of St. Augustine. This order 
was originally simple and abstemious in its mode of liv¬ 
ing, and exemplary in its conduct; but it would seem 
that it gradually lapsed into those abuses which dis¬ 
graced too many of the wealthy monastic establishments ; 
for there are documents among its archives which inti¬ 
mate the prevalence of gross misrule and dissolute sen¬ 
suality among its members. 

At the time of the dissolution of the convents during 
the reign of Henry VIII., Newstead underwent a sudden 
reverse, being given, with the neighboring manor and 
rectory of Papelwick, to Sir John Byron, Steward of 
Manchester and Rochdale, and Lieutenant of Sherwood 
Forest. This ancient family worthy figures in the tradi¬ 
tions of the Abbey, and in the ghost-stories with which 
it abounds, under the quaint and graphic appellation of 
“ Sir John Byron the Little, with the great Beard.” He 
converted the saintly edifice into a castellated dwelling, 
making it his favorite residence and the seat of his forest 
jurisdiction. 

The Byron family being subsequently ennobled by * 


NEW8TEAD ABBET. 


337 


baronial title, and enriched bj various possessions, main¬ 
tained great style and retinue at Newstead. The proud 
edifice partook, however, of the vicissitudes of the times, 
and Lord Byron, in one of his poems, represents it as 
alternately the scene of lordly wassailing and of civil 
war: 

“ Hark, how the hall, resounding to the strain, 

Shakes with the martial music’s novel din! 

The heralds of a warrior’s haughty reign, 

High-crested banners wave thy walls within. 

“ Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish’d arms, 

The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum, 

Unite in concert with increased alarms.” 

About the middle of the last century, the Abbey came 
into the possession of another noted character, who 
makes no less figure in its shadowy traditions than Sir 
John the Little with the great Beard. This was the 
grand-uncle of the poet, familiarly known among the gos¬ 
siping chroniclers of the Abbey as “the Wicked Lord 
Byron.” He is represented as a man of irritable pas¬ 
sions and vindictive temper, in the indulgence of which 
an incident occurred which gave a turn to his whole 
character and life, and in some measure affected the for¬ 
tunes of the Abbey. In his neighborhood lived his kins¬ 
man and friend, Mr. Chaworth, proprietor of Annesley 
Hall. Being together in London in 1765, in a chamber 
of the Star and Garter tavern in Pall Mall, a quarrel rose 
22 


338 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


between them. Byron insisted npon settling it upon the 
spot by single combat. They fought without seconds, by 
the dim light of a candle ; and Mr. Chaworth, although 
the most expert swordsman, received a mortal wound. 
With his dying breath he related such particulars of the 
contest as induced the coroner’s jury to return a verdict 
of wilful murder. Lord Byron was sent to the Tower, 
and subsequently tried before the House of Peers, where 
an ultimate verdict was given of manslaughter. 

He retired after this to the Abbey, where he shut him¬ 
self up to brood over his disgraces; grew gloomy, mo¬ 
rose, and fantastical, and indulged in fits of passion and 
caprice, that made him the theme of rural wonder and 
scandal. No tale was too wild or too monstrous for 
vulgar belief. Like his successor the poet, he was ac¬ 
cused of all kinds of vagaries and wickedness. It was 
said that he always went armed, as if prepared to com¬ 
mit murder on the least provocation. At one time, when 
a gentleman of his neighborhood was to dine tete-a-tete 
with him, it is said a brace of pistols were gravely laid 
with the knives and forks upon the table, as part of the 
regular table furniture, and implements that might be 
needed in the course of the repast. Another rumor 
states, that, being exasperated at his coachman for dis¬ 
obedience to orders, he shot him on the spot, threw his 
body into the coach where Lady Byron was seated, and, 
mounting the box, officiated in his stead. At another 
time, according to the same vulgar rumors, he threw her 


NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 


339 


ladyship into the lake in front of the Abbey, where she 
would have been drowned but for the timely aid of the 
gardener. These stories are doubtless exaggerations of 
trivial incidents which may have occurred ; but it is cer¬ 
tain that the wayward passions of this unhappy man 
caused a separation from his wife, and finally spread a 
solitude around him. Being displeased at the marriage 
of his son, and heir, he displayed an inveterate malignity 
towards him. Not being able to cut off his succession 
to the Abbey estate, which descended to him by entail, 
he endeavored to injure it as much as possible, so that it 
might come a mere wreck into his hands. For this pur¬ 
pose he suffered the Abbey to fall out of repair, and 
everything to go to waste about it, and cut down all the 
timber on the estate, laying low many a tract of old Sher¬ 
wood Forest, so that the Abbey .lands lay stripped and 
bare of all their ancient honors. He was baffled in his 
unnatural revenge by the premature death of his son, 
and passed the remainder of his days in his deserted and 
dilapidated halls, a gloomy misanthrope, brooding amidst 
the scenes he had laid desolate. 

His wayward humors drove from him all neighborly 
society, and for a part of the time he was almost without 
domestics. In his misanthropic mood, when at variance 
with all human-kind, he took to feeding crickets, so that 
in process of time the Abbey was overrun with them, and 
its lonely halls made more lonely at night by their mo¬ 
notonous music. Tradition adds that, at his death, the 


340 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


crickets seemed aware tliat they had lost their patron 
and protector, for they one and all packed up bag and 
baggage, and left the Abbey, trooping across its courts 
and corridors in all directions. 

The death of the “ Old Lord,” or “ The Wicked Lord 
Byron,” for he is known by both appellations, occurred 
in 1798; and the Abbey then passed into the possession 
of the poet. The latter was but eleven years of age, and 
living in humble style with his mother in Scotland. 
They came soon after to England, to take possession. 
Moore gives a simple but striking anecdote of the first 
arrival of the poet at the domains of his ancestors. 

They had arrived at the Newstead toll-bar, and saw 
the woods of the Abbey stretching out to receive them, 
when Mrs. Byron, affecting to be ignorant of the place, 
asked the woman of the toll-house to whom that seat 
belonged? She was told that the owner of it, Lord 
Byron, had been some months dead. “ And who is the 
next heir? ” asked the proud and happy mother. “ They 
say,” answered the old woman, “it is a little boy who 
lives at Aberdeen.”—“ And this is he, bless him! ” ex¬ 
claimed the nurse, no longer able to contain herself, and 
turning to kiss with delight the young lord who was 
seated on her lap.* 

During Lord Byron’s minority, the Abbey was let to 
Lord Grey de Buthen, but the poet visited it occasion- 


Moore’s Life of Lord Byron. 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


341 


ally during the Harrow vacations, when he resided with 
his mother at lodgings in Nottingham. It was treated 
little better by its present tenant than by the old lord 
who preceded him; so that, when, in the autumn of 
1808, Lord Byron took up his abode there, it was in a 
ruinous condition. The following lines from his own 
pen may give some idea of its condition : 

“Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle, 
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; 

In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 

Have choked up the rose which once bloomed in the way. 

“ Of the mail-covered barons who, proudly, to battle 
Led thy vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain, 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every wind rattle, 

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.” * 

In another poem he expresses the melancholy feeling 
with which he took possession of his ancestral mansion: 

“ Newstead ! That saddening scene of change is thine, 

Thy yawning arch betokens sure decay: 

The last and youngest of a noble line 
Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

“ Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towers, 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep, 

Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers, 

These—these he views, and views them but to weep. 


* Lines on leaving Newstead Abbey. 


342 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


“ Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes, 

Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great; 

Yet lingers ’mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 

Nor breathes a murmur ’gainst the will of fate.” * 

Lord Byron had not fortune sufficient to put the pile 
in extensive repair, nor to maintain anything like the 
state of his ancestors. He restored some of the apart* 
ments, so as to furnish his mother with a comfortable 
habitation, and fitted up a quaint study for himself, in 
which, among books and busts, and other library furni¬ 
ture, were two skulls of the ancient friars, grinning on 
each side of an antique cross. One of his gay com¬ 
panions gives a picture of Newstead when thus repaired, 
and the picture is sufficiently desolate. 

“ There are two tiers of cloisters, with a variety of 
cells and rooms about them, which, though not in¬ 
habited, nor in an inhabitable state, might easily be 
made so; and many of the original rooms, among which 
is a fine stone hall, are still in use. Of the Abbey 
church, one end only remains; and the old kitchen, with 
a long range of apartments, is reduced to a heap of rub¬ 
bish. Leading from the Abbey to the modern part of 
the habitation is a noble room, seventy feet in length, 
and twenty-three in breadth; but every part of the house 
displays neglect and decay, save those which the present 
lord has lately fitted up.” t 

* Elegy on Newstead Abbey. 

f Letter of the late Charles Skinner Mathews, Esq. 


NE WSTEAD ABBEY . 


343 


Even the repairs thus made were but of transient 
benefit, for the roof being left in its dilapidated state, 
the rain soon penetrated into the apartments which Lord 
Byron had restored and decorated, and in a few years 
rendered them almost as desolate as the rest of the 
Abbey. 

Still he felt a pride in the ruinous old edifice; its very 
dreary and dismantled state addressed itself to his po¬ 
etical imagination, and to that love of the melancholy 
and the grand which is evinced in all his writings. 
“Come what may,” said he in one of his letters, “New- 
stead and I stand or fall together. I have now lived on 
the spot. I have fixed my heart upon it, and no press¬ 
ure, present or future, shall induce me to barter the 
last vestige of our inheritance. I have that pride within 
me which will enable me to support difficulties; could I 
obtain in exchange for Newstead Abbey the first fortune 
in the country, I would reject the proposition.” 

His residence at the Abbey, however, was fitful and 
uncertain. He passed occasional portions of time there, 
sometimes studiously and alone, oftener idly and reck¬ 
lessly, and occasionally with young and gay compan¬ 
ions, in riot and revelry, and the indulgence of all kinds 
of mad caprice. The Abbey was by no means benefited 
by these roistering inmates, who sometimes played off 
monkish mummeries about the cloisters, at other times 
turned the state-chambers into schools for boxing and 
single-stick, and shot pistols in the great hall. The 


344 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


country people of the neighborhood were as much puz¬ 
zled by these mad-cap vagaries of the new incumbent as 
by the gloomier habits of the “ old lord,” and began to 
think that madness was inherent in the Byron race, or 
that some wayward star ruled over the Abbey. 

It is needless to enter into a detail of the circum¬ 
stances which led his Lordship to sell his ancestral 
estate, notwithstanding the partial predilections and he¬ 
reditary feeling which he had so eloquently expressed. 
Fortunately, it fell into the hands of a man who pos¬ 
sessed something of a poetical temperament, and who 
cherished an enthusiastic admiration for Lord Byron. 
Colonel (at that time Major) Wildman had been a school¬ 
mate of the poet, and sat with him on the same form 
at Harrow. He had subsequently distinguished him¬ 
self in the war of the Peninsula, and at the battle of 
Waterloo, and it was a great consolation to Lord Byron, 
in parting with his family estate, to know that it would 
be held by one capable of restoring its faded glories, and 
who would respect and preserve all the monuments and 
memorials of his line.* 

* The following letter, written in the course of the transfer of the 
estate, has never been published:— 

Venice, Nov. 18, 1818. 

My dear Wildman,— 

Mr. Hanson is on the eve of his return, so that I have only time to 
return a few inadequate thanks for your very kind letter. I should re¬ 
gret to trouble you with any requests of mine, in regard to the preserve 
tion of any signs of my family which may still exist at Newstead, and 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


345 


The confidence of Lord Byron in the good feeling and 
good taste of Colonel Wildman has been justified by the 
event. Under his judicious eye and munificent hand the 
venerable and romantic pile has risen from its ruins in 
all its old monastic and baronial splendor, and additions 
have been made to it in perfect conformity of style. The 
groves and forests have been replanted; the lakes and 
fish-ponds cleaned out, and the gardens rescued from the 
“ hemlock and thistle,” and restored to their pristine and 
dignified formality. 

The farms on the estate have been put in complete 
order, new farm-houses built of stone, in the picturesque 
and comfortable style of the old English granges; the 
hereditary tenants secured in their paternal homes and 

leave everything of that kind to your own feelings, present or future, 
hpon the subject. The portrait which you flatter me by desiring, would 
not be worth to you your trouble and expense of such an expedition, but 
you may rely upon having the very first that may be pamted, and which 
may seem worth your acceptance. 

I trust that Newstead will, being yours, remain so, and that I may see 
you as happy as I am very sure that you will make your dependants. 
With regard to myself, you may be sure that, whether in the fourth, or 
fifth, or sixth form at Harrow, or in the fluctuations of after-life, I shall 
always remember with regard my old schoolfellow—fellow-monitor, and 
friend, and recognize with respect the gallant soldier, who, with all the 
advantages of fortune and allurements of youth to a life of pleasure, 
devoted himself to duties of a nobler order, and will receive his reward in 
the esteem and admiration of his country. 

Ever yours most truly and affectionately, 

Bybon. 


346 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


treated with the most considerate indulgence; every¬ 
thing, in a word, gives happy indications of a liberal and 
beneficent landlord. 

What most, however, will interest the visitors to the 
Abbey in favor of its present occupant, is the reverential 
care with which he has preserved and renovated every 
monument and relic of the Byron family, and every ob¬ 
ject in anywise connected with the memory of the poet. 
Eighty thousand pounds have already been expended 
upon the venerable pile, yet the work is still going on, 
and Newstead promises to realize the hope faintly 
breathed by the poet when bidding it a melancholy fare¬ 
well : 

“ Haply thy sun emerging, yet may shine, 

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; 

Hours splendid as the past may still be thine. 

And bless thy future, as thy former day.” 


ARRIVAL AT THE ABBEY. 

f il HAD been passing a merry Christmas in the 
good old style at Barlboro’ Hall, a venerable 
I family mansion in Derbyshire, and set off to 
finish the holidays with the hospitable proprietor of 
Newstead Abbey. A drive of seventeen miles through a 
pleasant country, part of it the storied region of Sher¬ 
wood Forest, brought me to the gate of Newstead Park. 
The aspect of the park was by no means imposing, the 
fine old trees that once adorned it having been laid low 
by Lord Byron’s wayward predecessor. 

Entering the gate, the post-chaise rolled heavily along 
a sandy road, between naked declivities, gradually de¬ 
scending into one of those gentle and sheltered valleys 
in which the sleek monks of old loved to nestle them¬ 
selves. Here a sweep of the road round an angle of a 
garden-wall brought us full in front of the venerable 
edifice, embosomed in the valley, with a beautiful sheet 
of water spreading out before it. 

The irregular gray pile, of motley architecture, an¬ 
swered to the description given by Lord Byron: 

347 








348 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


“An old, old monastery once, and now 
Still older mansion, of a rich and rare 
Mixed Gothic . . . 

One end was fortified by a castellated tower, bespeak¬ 
ing the baronial and warlike days of the edifice; the 
other end maintained its primitive monastic charac¬ 
ter. A ruined chapel, flanked by a solemn grove, still 
reared its front entire. It is true, the threshold of the 
once frequented portal was grass-grown, and the great 
lancet-window, once glorious with painted glass, was now 
entwined and overhung with ivy; but the old convent 
cross still braved both time and tempest on the pinnacle 
of the chapel, and below, the blessed effigies of the Vir¬ 
gin and child, sculptured in gray stone, remained unin¬ 
jured in their niche, giving a sanctified aspect to the pile.* 

A flight of rooks, tenants of the adjacent grove, were 
hovering about the ruin, and balancing themselves upon 
every airy projection, and looked down with curious eye, 
and cawed as the post-chaise rattled along below. 

The chamberlain of the Abbey, a most decorous per¬ 
sonage, dressed in black, received us at the portal. 
Here, too, we encountered a memento of Lord Byron, a 
great black and white Newfoundland dog, that had ac- 

* “.in a higher niche, alone, but crown’d, 

The Virgin Mother of the God-born child, 

With her son in her blessed arms, looked round, 

Spared by some chance, when all beside was spoil’d : 

She made the earth below seem holy ground.” 

Don Juan, Canto HI. 



NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


349 


companied his remains from Greece. He was descended 
from the famous Boatswain, and inherited his generous 
qualities. He was a cherished inmate of the Abbey, and 
honored and caressed by every visitor. Conducted by 
the chamberlain, and followed by the dog, who assisted 
in doing the honors of the house, we passed through a 
long, low vaulted hall, supported by massive Gothic 
arches, and not a little resembling the crypt of a cathe¬ 
dral, being the basement story of the Abbey. 

From this we ascended a stone staircase, at the head 
of which a pair of folding-doors admitted us into a broad 
corridor that ran round the interior of the Abbey. The 
windows of the corridor looked into a quadrangular 
grass-grown court, forming the hollow centre of the pile. 
In the midst of it rose a lofty and fantastic fountain, 
wrought of the same gray stone as the main edifice, and 
which has been well described by Lord Byron. 

“ Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play’d, 

Symmetrical, but deck’d with carvings quaint, 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 

And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: 

The spring rush’d through grim mouths of granite made, 

And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 

Like man’s vain glory, and his vainer troubles.”* 


Around this quadrangle were low vaulted cloisters, 


* Don Jucm, Canto III. 


350 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


with Gothic arches, once the secluded walks of the 
monks: the corridor along which we were passing was 
built above these cloisters, and their hollow arches 
seemed to reverberate every footfall. Everything thus 
far had a solemn monastic air; but, on arriving at an 
angle of the corridor, the eye, glancing along a shadowy 
gallery, caught a sight of two dark figures in plate armor, 
with closed vizors, bucklers braced, and swords drawn, 
standing motionless against the wall. They seemed two 
phantoms of the chivalrous era of the Abbey. 

Here the chamberlain, throwing open a folding-door, 
ushered us at once into a spacious and lofty saloon, 
which offered a brilliant contrast to the quaint and 
sombre apartments we had traversed. It was elegantly 
furnished, and the walls hung with paintings, yet some¬ 
thing of its original architecture had been preserved 
and blended with modern embellishments. There were 
the stone-shafted casements and the deep bow-window 
of former times. The carved and panelled wood-work 
of the lofty ceiling had likewise been carefully restored, 
and its Gothic and grotesque devices painted and gilded 
in their ancient style. 

Here, too, were emblems of the former and latter days 
of the Abbey, in the effigies of the first and last of the 
Byron line that held sway over its destinies. At the 
upper end of the saloon, above the door, the dark Gothic 
portrait of “Sir John Byron the Little with the great 
Beard,” looked grimly down from his canvas, while, at 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


351 


the opposite end, a white marble bust of the genius loci, 
the noble poet, shone conspicuously from its pedestal. 

The whole air and style of the apartment partook 
more of the palace than the monastery, and its windows 
looked forth on a suitable prospect, composed of beauti¬ 
ful groves, smooth verdant lawns, and silver sheets of 
water. Below the windows was a small flower-garden, 
enclosed by stone balustrades, on which were stately 
peacocks, sunning themselves and displaying their plu¬ 
mage. About the grass plots in front were gay cock- 
pheasants, and plump partridges, and nimble - footed 
water-hens, feeding almost in perfect security. 

Such was the medley of objects presented to the eye 
on first visiting the Abbey, and I found the interior fully 
to answer the description of the poet— 

“ The mansion’s self was vast and venerable, 

With more of the monastic than has been 
Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable, 

The cells, too, and refectory, I ween; 

An exquisite small chapel had been able, 

Still unimpair’d, to decorate the scene; 

The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sunk, 

And spoke more of the friar than the monk. 

‘‘Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, joined 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 

Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined 
Formed a whole, which, irregular in parts, 

Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 

At least of those whose eyes were in their hearts.” 


352 


CRA TON MISCELLANY. 


It is not my intention to lay open the scenes of domes¬ 
tic life at the Abbey, nor to describe the festivities of 
which I was a partaker during my sojourn within its 
hospitable walls. I wish merely to present a picture 
of the edifice itself, and of those personages and circum¬ 
stances about it connected with the memory of Byron. 

I forbear, therefore, to dwell on my reception by my 
excellent and amiable host and hostess, or to make my 
reader acquainted with the elegant inmates of the man¬ 
sion that I met in the saloon; and I shall pass on at 
once with him to the chamber allotted me, and to which 
I was most respectfully conducted by the chamberlain. 

It was one of a magnificent suite of rooms, extending 
between the court of the cloisters and the Abbey garden, 
the windows looking into the latter. The whole suite 
formed the ancient state apartment, and had fallen into 
decay during the neglected days of the Abbey, so as to 
be in a ruinous condition in the time of Lord Byron. It 
had since been restored to its ancient splendor, of which 
my chamber may be cited as a specimen. It was lofty 
and well proportioned; the lower part of the walls was 
panelled with ancient oak, the upper part hung with 
gobelin tapestry, representing Oriental hunting-scenes, 
wherein the figures were of the size of life, and of great 
vivacity of attitude and color. 

The furniture was antique, dignified, and cumbrous. 
High-backed chairs curiously carved, and wrought in 
needlework; a massive clothes-press of dark oak, well 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


353 


polished, and inlaid with landscapes of various tinted 
woods; a bed of state, ample and lofty, so as only to be 
ascended by a movable flight of steps, the huge posts 
supporting a high tester with a tuft of crimson plumes 
at each corner, and rich curtains of crimson damask 
hanging in broad and heavy folds. 

A venerable mirror of plate-glass stood on the toilet, 
in which belles of former centuries may have contem¬ 
plated and decorated their charms. The floor of the 
chamber was of tessellated oak, shining with wax, and 
partly covered by a Turkey carpet. In the centre stood 
a massy oaken table, waxed and polished as smooth as 
glass, and furnished with a writing-desk of perfumed 
rosewood. 

A sober light was admitted into the room through 
Gothic stone-shafted casements, partly shaded by crim¬ 
son curtains, and partly overshadowed by the trees of 
the garden. This solemnly tempered light added to the 
effect of the stately and antiquated interior. 

Two portraits, suspended over the doors, were in keep¬ 
ing with the scene. They were in ancient Vandyke 
dresses; one was a cavalier, who may have occupied this 
apartment in days of yore, the other was a lady with 
a black velvet mask in her hand, who may once have 
arrayed herself for conquest at the very mirror I have 
described. 

The most curious relic of old times, however, in this 
quaint but richly dight apartment, was a great chimney- 
23 


354 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


piece of panel-work, carved in high relief, with niches 
or compartments, each containing a human bust, that 
protruded almost entirely from the wall. Some of the 
figures were in ancient Gothic garb; the most striking 
among them was a female, who was earnestly regarded 
by a fierce Saracen from an adjoining niche. 

This panel-work is among the mysteries of the Abbey, 
and causes as much wide speculation as the Egyptian 
hieroglyphics. Some suppose it to illustrate an adven¬ 
ture in the Holy Land, and that the lady in effigy had 
been rescued by some crusader of the family from the 
turbaned Turk who watches her so earnestly. What 
tends to give weight to these suppositions is, that similar 
pieces of panel-work exist in other parts of the Abbey, 
in all of which are to be seen the Christian lady and 
her Saracen guardian or lover. At the bottom of these 
sculptures are emblazoned the armorial bearings of the 
Byrons. 

I shall not detain the reader, however, with any fur¬ 
ther description of my apartment, or of the mysteries 
connected with it. As he is to pass some days with me 
at the Abbey, we shall have time to examine the old edi¬ 
fice at our leisure, and to make ourselves acquainted, not 
merely with its interior, but likewise with its environs. 


THE ABBEY GARDEN. 



• HE morning after my arrival, I rose at an early 
hour. The daylight was peering brightly be¬ 
tween the window-curtains, and drawing them 
apart, I gazed through the Gothic casement upon a scene 
that accorded in character with the interior of the 
ancient mansion. It was the old Abbey garden, but 
altered to suit the tastes of different times and occu¬ 
pants. In one direction were shady walks and alleys, 
broad terraces and lofty groves; in another, beneath a 
gray monastic-looking angle of the edifice, overrun with 
ivy and surmounted by a cross, lay a small French gar¬ 
den, with formal flower-pots, gravelled walks, and stately 
stone balustrades. 

The beauty of the morning, and the quiet of the hour, 
tempted me to an early stroll; for it is pleasant to enjoy 
such old-time places alone, when one may indulge poetical 
reveries, and spin cobweb fancies without interruption. 
Dressing myself, therefore, with all speed, I descended a 
small flight of steps from the state apartment into the 
long corridor over the cloisters, along which I passed to 
a door at the further end. Here I emerged into the 

355 






356 


CM A TON MISCELLANY. 


open air, and, descending another flight of stone steps, 
found myself in the centre of what had once been the 
Abbey chapel. 

Nothing of the sacred edifice remained, however, but 
the Gothic front, with its deep portal and grand lancet- 
window, already described. The nave, the side walls, 
the choir, the sacristy, all had disappeared. The open 
sky was over my head, a smooth-shaven grass-plot be¬ 
neath my feet. Gravel-walks and shrubberies had suc¬ 
ceeded to the shadowy aisles, and stately trees to the 
clustering columns. 

“Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 

The humid pall of life-extinguished clay, 

In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 

Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, 

Soon as the gloaming spreads her warning shade. 

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 

Or matin orisons to Mary paid.” 

Instead of the matin orisons of the monks, however, 
the ruined walls of the chapel now resounded to the caw¬ 
ing of innumerable rooks that were fluttering and hover¬ 
ing about the dark grove which they inhabited, and pre¬ 
paring for their morning flight. 

My ramble led me along quiet alleys, bordered by 
shrubbery, where the solitary water-hen would now and 
then scud across my path, and take refuge among the 
bushes. From hence I entered upon a broad terraced 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


357 


walk, once a favorite resort of the friars, which extended 
the whole length of the old Abbey garden, passing along 
the ancient stone wall which bounded it. In the centre of 
the garden lay one of the monkish fish-pools, an oblong 
sheet of water, deep set, like a mirror, in green sloping 
banks of turf. In its glassy bosom was reflected the 
dark mass of a neighboring grove, one of the most im¬ 
portant features of the garden. 

This grove goes by the sinister name of “ the Devil's 
Wood,” and enjoys but an equivocal character in the 
neighborhood. It was planted by “ The Wicked Lord 
Byron,” during the early part of his residence at the 
Abbey, before his fatal duel with Mr. Chaworth. Hav¬ 
ing something of a foreign and a classical taste, he set 
up leaden statues of satyrs or fauns at each end of the 
grove. The statues, like everything else about the old 
Lord, fell under the suspicion and obloquy that • over¬ 
shadowed him in the latter part of his life. The country 
people, who knew nothing of heathen mythology and its 
sylvan deities, looked with horror at idols invested with 
the diabolical attributes of horns and cloven feet. They 
probably supposed them some object of secret worship of 
the gloomy and secluded misanthrope and reputed mur¬ 
derer, and gave them the name of “ The old Lord’s 
Devils.” 

I penetrated the recesses of the mystic grove. There 
stood the ancient and much slandered statues, over¬ 
shadowed by tall larches, and stained by dank green 


358 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


mould. It is not a matter of surprise that strange fig¬ 
ures, thus behoofed and behorned, and set up in a gloomy 
grove, should perplex the minds of the simple and super¬ 
stitious yeomanry. There are many of the tastes and 
caprices of the rich, that in the eyes of the uneducated 
must savor of insanity. 

I was attracted to this grove, however, by memorials 
of a more touching character. It had been one of the 
favorite haunts of the late Lord Byron. In his farewell 
visit to the Abbey, after he had parted with the posses¬ 
sion of it, he passed some time in this grove, in company 
with his sister; and as a last memento, engraved their 
names on the bark of a tree. 

The feelings that agitated his bosom during this fare¬ 
well visit, when he beheld round him objects dear to his 
pride, and dear to his juvenile recollections, but of which 
the narrowness of his fortune would not permit him to 
retain possession, may be gathered from a passage in a 
poetical epistle, written to his sister in after years:— 

“ I did remind you of our own dear lake 

By the old hall which may he mine no more; 

Leman’s is fair; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore: 

Sad havoc time must with my memory make 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; 

Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
Resign’d forever, or divided far. 

“ I feel almost at times as I have felt 

In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY, 


359 


Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 

Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 

And even at moments I would think I see 
Some living things I love—but none like thee.” 

I searched the grove for some time, before I found the 
tree on which Lord Byron had left his frail memorial 
It was an elm of peculiar form, having two trunks, which 
sprang from the same root, and, after growing side by 
side, mingled their branches together. He had selected 
it, doubtless, as emblematical of his sister and himself. 
The names of Bybon and Augusta were still visible. 
They had been deeply cut in the bark, but the natural 
growth of the tree was gradually rendering them illegi¬ 
ble, and a few years hence, strangers will seek in vain 
for this record of fraternal affection. 

Leaving the grove, I continued my ramble along a 
spacious terrace, overlooking what had once been the 
kitchen-garden of the Abbey. Below me lay the monks’ 
stew, or fish-pond, a dark pool, overhung by gloomy cy¬ 
presses, with a solitary water-hen swimming about in it. 

A little further on, and the terrace looked down upon 
the stately scene on the south side of the Abbey; the 
flower-garden, with its stone balustrades and stately pea¬ 
cocks, the lawn, with its pheasants and partridges, and 
the soft valley of Newstead beyond. 

At a distance, on the border of the lawn, stood another 


360 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


memento of Lord Byron; an oak planted by him in bis 
boyhood, on his first visit to the Abbey. With a super¬ 
stitious feeling inherent in him, he linked his own des¬ 
tiny with that of the tree. “As it fares,” said he, “so 
will fare my fortunes.” Several years elapsed, many of 
them passed in idleness and dissipation. He returned 
to the Abbey a youth scarce grown to manhood, but, as 
he thought, with vices and follies beyond his years. 
He found his emblem oak almost choked by weeds and 
brambles, and took the lesson to himself. 

“Young oak, when I planted thee deep in the ground, 

I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine, 

That thy dark waving branches would flourish around, 

And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

“ Such, such was my hope—when in infancy’s years 
On the land of my fathers I reared thee with pride ; 

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears— 

Thy decay, not the weeds that surround thee can hide.” 

I leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace, and 
gazed upon the valley of Newstead, with its silver sheets 
of water gleaming in the morning sun. It was a Sabbath 
morning, which always seems to have a hallowed influ¬ 
ence over the landscape, probably from the quiet of the 
day, and the cessation of all kinds of week-day labor. As 
I mused upon the mild and beautiful scene, and the way¬ 
ward destinies of the man whose stormy temperament 
forced him from this tranquil paradise to battle with the 
passions and perils of the world ? the sweet chime of bells 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


361 


from a village a few miles distant came stealing up the 
valley. Every sight and sound this morning seemed 
calculated to summon up touching recollections of poor 
Byron. The chime was from the village spire of Huck- 
nall Torkard, beneath which his remains lie buried! 

-I have since visited his tomb. It is in an old gray 

country church, venerable with the lapse of centuries. 
He lies buried beneath the pavement, at one end of the 
principal aisle. A light falls on the spot through the 
stained glass of a Gothic window, and a tablet on the 
adjacent wall announces the family vault of the Byrons. 
It had been the wayward intention of the poet to be en¬ 
tombed, with his faithful dog, in the monument erected 
by him in the garden of Newstead Abbey. His executors 
showed better judgment and feeling, in consigning his 
ashes to the family sepulchre, to mingle with those of 
his mother and his kindred. Here, 

“ After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well. 

Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing 
Can touch him further ! ” 

How nearly did his dying hour realize the wish made 
by him, but a few years previously, in one of his fitful 
moods of melancholy and misanthropy:— 

“ When time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 

Oblivion! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o’er my dying bed 1 


362 


GRA TON MISCELLANY. 


“ No band of friends or heirs be there, 

To weep or wish the coming blow : 

No maiden with dishevelled hair. 

To feel, or feign decorous woe. 

" But silent let me sink to earth, 

With no officious mourners near: 

I would not mar one hour of mirth. 

Nor startle friendship with a tear.” 

He died among strangers, in a foreign land, without a 
kindred hand to close his eyes; yet he did not die un¬ 
wept. With all his faults and errors, and passions and 
caprices, he had the gift of attaching his humble depend¬ 
ants warmly to him. One of them, a poor Greek, accom¬ 
panied his remains to England, and followed them to the 
grave. I am told that, during the ceremony, he stood 
holding on by a pew in an agony of grief, and when all 
was over, seemed as if he would have gone down into the 
tomb with the body of his master. A nature that could 
inspire such attachments, must have been generous and 
beneficent 


PLOUGH MONDAY. 


HERWOOD FOREST is a region that still re¬ 
tains much of the quaint customs and holiday 
games of the olden time. A day or two after my 
arrival at the Abbey, as I was walking in the cloisters, I 


heard the sound of rustic music, and now and then a 
burst of merriment, proceeding from the interior of the 
mansion. Presently the chamberlain came and informed 
me that a party of country lads were in the servants’ hall, 
performing Plough Monday antics, and invited me to wit¬ 
ness their mummery. I gladly assented, for I am some¬ 
what curious about these relics of popular usages. The 
servants’ hall was a fit place for the exhibition of an old 
Gothic game. It was a chamber of great extent which 
in monkish times had been the refectory of the Abbey. 
A row of massive columns extended lengthwise through 
the centre, whence sprung Gothic arches, supporting the 
low vaulted ceiling. Here was a set of rustics dressed 
up in something of the style represented in the books 
concerning popular antiquities. One was in a rough 
garb of frieze, with his head muffled in bear-skin, and a 
bell dangling behind him, that jingled at every move- 






804 


CRAYON nrise ELL ANY. 


ment. He was the clown, or fool of the party, probably 
a traditional representative of the ancient satyr. The 
rest were decorated with ribbons and armed with wooden 
swords. The leader of the troop recited the old ballad 
of St. George and the Dragon, which had been current 
among the country people for ages; his companions 
accompanied the recitation with some rude attempt at 
acting, while the clown cut all kinds of antics. 

To these succeeded a set of morris-dancers, gayly 
dressed up with ribbons and hawks’-bells. In this troop 
we had Robin Hood and Maid Marian, the latter repre¬ 
sented by a smooth-faced boy: also, Beelzebub, equipped 
with a broom, and accompanied by his wife Bessy, a ter¬ 
magant old beldame. These rude pageants are the lin¬ 
gering remains of the old customs of Plough Monday, 
when bands of rustics, fantastically dressed, and fur¬ 
nished with pipe and tabor, dragged what was called the 
“ fool plough ” from house to house, singing ballads and 
performing antics, for which they were rewarded with 
money and good cheer. 

But it is not in “ merry Sherwood Forest ” alone that 
these remnants of old times prevail. They are to be met 
with in most of the counties north of the Trent, which 
classic stream seems to be the boundary-line of primitive 
customs. During my recent Christmas sojourn at Barl- 
boro’ Hall, on the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, I 
had witnessed many of the rustic festivities peculiar to 
that joyous season, which have rashly been pronounced 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


365 


obsolete by those who draw their experience merely from 
city life. I had seen the great Yule clog put on the fire 
on Christmas Eve, and the wassail-bowl sent round* 
brimming with its spicy beverage. I had heard carols 
beneath my window by the choristers of the neighboring 
village, who went their rounds about the ancient Hall 
at midnight, according to immemorial custom. We had 
mummers and mimers too, with the story of St. George 
and the Dragon, and other ballads and traditional dia¬ 
logues, together with the famous old interlude of the 
Hobby Horse, all represented in the antechamber and 
servants* hall by rustics, who inherited the custom and 
the poetry from preceding generations. 

The boar’s head, crowned with rosemary, had taken its 
honored station among the Christmas cheer; the festal 
board had been attended by glee-singers and minstrels 
from the village to entertain the company with heredi¬ 
tary songs and catches during their repast; and the old 
Pyrrhic game of the sword-dance, handed down since the 
time of the Romans, was admirably performed in the 
eourt-yard of the mansion by a band of young men, lithe 
and supple in their forms and graceful in their move¬ 
ments, who, I was told, went the rounds of the villages 
and country-seats during the Christmas holidays. 

I specify these rural pageants and ceremonials, which 
I saw during my sojourn in this neighborhood, because it 
has been deemed that some of the anecdotes of holiday 
customs given in my preceding writings related to usages 


366 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


which have entirely passed away. Critics who reside in 
cities have little idea of the primitive manners and ob¬ 
servances which still prevail in remote and rural neigh¬ 
borhoods. 

In fact, in crossing the Trent one seems to step back 
into old times; and in the villages of Sherwood For 
est we are in a black-letter region. The moss-green 
cottages, the lowly mansions of gray stone, the Gothic 
crosses at each end of the villages, and the tall May-pole 
in the centre, transport us in imagination to foregone 
centuries; everything has a quaint and antiquated air. 

The tenantry on the Abbey estate partake of this prim¬ 
itive character. Some of the families have rented farms 
there for nearly three hundred years ; and, notwithstand¬ 
ing that their mansions fell to decay, and everything 
about them partook of the general waste and misrule of 
the Byron dynasty, yet nothing could uproot them from 
their native soil. I am happy to say that Colonel Wild- 
man has taken these stanch loyal families under his 
peculiar care. He has favored them in their rents, re¬ 
paired, or rather rebuilt their farm-houses, and has en¬ 
abled families that had almost sunk into the class of 
mere rustic laborers once more to hold up their heads 
among the yeomanry of the land. 

I visited one of these renovated establishments that 
had but lately been a mere ruin, and now was a sub¬ 
stantial grange. It was inhabited by a young couple. 
The good woman showed every part of the establish- 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


367 


ment with decent pride, exulting in its comfort and re¬ 
spectability. Her husband, I understood, had risen in 
consequence with the improvement of his mansion, and 
now began to be known among his rustic neighbors by 
the appellation of “ the young Squire.” 


OLD SERVANTS. 


N an old, time-worn, and mysterious-looking 
mansion like Newstead Abbey, and one so 
haunted by monkish and feudal and poetical 
associations, it is a prize to meet with some ancient 
crone, who has passed a long life about the place, so 
as to have become a living chronicle of its fortunes and 
vicissitudes. Such a one is Nanny Smith, a worthy 
dame, near seventy years of age, who for a long time 
served as housekeeper to the Byrons. The Abbey and 
its domains comprise her world, beyond which she 
knows nothing, but within which she has ever conducted 
herself with native shrewdness and old-fashioned hon¬ 
esty. When Lord Byron sold the Abbey, her vocation 
was at an end, still she lingered about the place, having 
for it the local attachment of a cat. Abandoning her 
comfortable housekeeper’s apartment, she took shelter in 
one of the “rock houses,” which are nothing more than 
a little neighborhood of cabins, excavated in the per¬ 
pendicular walls of a stone quarry, at no great distance 
from the Abbey. Three cells, cut in the living rock, 
formed her dwelling; these she fitted up humbly but 

368 








NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


369 


comfortably; her son William labored in the neighbor¬ 
hood, and aided to support her, and Nanny Smith main¬ 
tained a cheerful aspect and an independent spirit. One 
of her gossips suggested to her that William should 
marry, and bring home a young wife to help her and 
take care of her. “ Nay, nay,” replied Nanny, tartly, “ I 
want no young mistress in my house” So much for the 
love of rule—poor Nanny’s house was a hole in a rock! 

Colonel Wildman, on taking possession of the Abbey, 
found Nanny Smith thus humbly nestled. With that ac¬ 
tive benevolence which characterizes him, he immediately 
set William up in a small farm on the estate, where 
Nanny Smith has a comfortable mansion in her old days. 
Her pride is roused by her son’s advancement. She 
remarks with exultation that people treat William with 
much more respect now that he is a farmer, than they 
did when he was a laborer. A farmer of the neighbor¬ 
hood has even endeavored to make a match between him 
and his sister, but Nanny Smith has grown fastidious, 
and interfered. The girl, she said, was too old for her 
son; besides, she did not see that he was in any need 
of a wife. 

“No,” said William, “I ha’ no great mind to marry the 
wench; but if the Colonel and his lady wish it, I am will¬ 
ing. They have been so kind to me that I should think 
it my duty to please them.” The Colonel and his lady, 
however, have not thought proper to put honest Wil¬ 
liam’s gratitude to so severe a test. 

24 


370 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Another worthy whom Colonel Wildman found vege¬ 
tating upon the place, and who had lived there for at 
least sixty years, was old Joe Murray. He had come 
there when a mere boy in the train of the “old lord,” 
about the middle of the last century, and had continued 
with him until his death. Having been a cabin-boy 
when very young, Joe always fancied himself a bit of a 
sailor, and had charge of all the pleasure-boats on the 
lake, though he afterwards rose to the dignity of butler. 
In the latter days of the old Lord Byron, when he shut 
himself up from all the world, Joe Murray was the only 
servant retained by him, excepting his housekeeper, Betty 
Hardstaff, who was reputed to have an undue sway over 
him, and was derisively called Lady Betty, among the 
country folk. 

When the Abbey came into the possession of the late 
Lord Byron, Joe Murray accompanied it as a fixture. 
He was reinstated as butler in the Abbey, and high ad¬ 
miral on the lake, and his sturdy honest mastiff qualities 
won so upon Lord Byron as even to rival his Newfound¬ 
land dog in his affections. Often, when dining, he would 
pour out a bumper of choice Madeira, and hand it to Joe 
as he stood behind his chair. In fact, when he built the 
monumental tomb which stands in the Abbey garden, he 
intended it for himself, Joe Murray, and the dog. The 
two latter were to lie on each side of him. Boatswain 
died not long afterwards, and was regularly interred, and 
the well-known epitaph inscribed on one side of the 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


371 


monument. Lord Byron departed for Greece: during 
his absence a gentleman, to whom Joe Murray was show¬ 
ing the tomb, observed, “ Well, old boy, you will take 
your place here some twenty years hence.” 

“I don’t know that, sir,” growled Joe, in reply; “if I 
was sure his Lordship would come here,' I should like it 
well enough, but I should not like to lie alone with the 
dog.” 

Joe Murray was always extremely neat in his dress, 
and attentive to his person, and made a most respectable 
appearance. A portrait of him still hangs in the Abbey, 
representing him a hale fresh-looking fellow, in a flaxen 
wig, a blue coat and buff waistcoat, with a pipe in his 
hand. He discharged all the duties of his station with 
great fidelity, unquestionable honesty, and much outward 
decorum; but, if we may believe his contemporary, Nan¬ 
ny Smith, who, as housekeeper, shared the sway of the 
household with him, he was very lax in his minor morals, 
and used to sing loose and profane songs as he presided 
at the table in the servants’ hall, or sat taking his ale and 
smoking his pipe by the evening fire. Joe had evidently 
derived his convivial notions from the race of English 
country squires who flourished in the days of his juve¬ 
nility. Nanny Smith was scandalized at his ribald songs, 
but being above harm herself, endured them in silence. 
At length, on his singing them before a young girl of six¬ 
teen, she could contain herself no longer, but read him a 
lecture that made his ears ring, and then flounced off to 


372 


OR A YON MISCELLANY. 


bed. The lecture seems, by her account, to hare stag¬ 
gered Joe, for he told her the next morning that he had 
had a terrible dream in the night. An Evangelist stood 
at the foot of his bed with a great Dutch Bible, which he 
held with the printed part towards him, and after a while 
pushed it in his face. Nanny Smith undertook to inter¬ 
pret the vision, and read from it such a homily, and de¬ 
duced such awful warnings, that Joe became quite seri¬ 
ous, left off singing, and took to reading good books for a 
month; but after that, continued Nanny, he relapsed and 
became as bad as ever, and continued to sing loose and 
profane songs to his dying day. 

When Colonel Wildman became proprietor of the Ab¬ 
bey, he found Joe Murray flourishing in a green old age, 
though upwards of fourscore, and continued him in his 
station as butler. The old man was rejoiced at the ex¬ 
tensive repairs that were immediately commenced, and 
anticipated with pride the day when the Abbey should 
rise out of its ruins with renovated splendor, its gates be 
thronged with trains and equipages, and its halls once 
more echo to the sound of joyous hospitality. 

What chiefly, however, concerned Joe’s pride and am¬ 
bition, was a plan of the Colonel’s to have the ancient 
refectory of the convent, a great vaulted room, supported 
by Gothic columns, converted into a servants’ hall. Here 
Joe looked forward to rule the roast at the head of 
the servants’ table, and to make the Gothic arches ring 
with those hunting and hard-drinking ditties which were 


NEW STEAD ABBEY. 


873 


the horror of the discreet Nanny Smith. Time, how¬ 
ever, was fast wearing away with him, and his great fear 
was that the hall would not be completed in his day. In 
his eagerness to hasten the repairs, he used to get up 
early in the morning, and ring up the workmen. Not¬ 
withstanding his great age, also, he would turn out half- 
dressed in cold weather to cut sticks for the fire. Col¬ 
onel Wildman kindly remonstrated with him for thus 
risking his health, as others would do the work for him. 

“Lord, sir,” exclaimed the hale old fellow, “it’s my 
air-bath, I’m all the better for it.” 

Unluckily, as he was thus employed one morning, a 
splinter flew up and wounded one of his eyes. An in¬ 
flammation took place ; he lost the sight of that eye, and 
subsequently of the other. Poor Joe gradually pined 
away, and grew melancholy. Colonel Wildman kindly 
tried to cheer him up. “ Come, come, old boy,” cried 
he, “ be of good heart; you will yet take your place in 
the servants’ hall.” 

“Nay, nay, sir,” replied he, “I did hope once that I 
should live to see it: I looked forward to it with pride, 
I confess ; but it is all over with me now,—I shall soon 
go home! ” 

He died shortly afterwards, at the advanced age of 
eighty-six, seventy of which had been passed as an 
honest and faithful servant at the Abbey. Colonel Wild¬ 
man had him decently interred in the church of Huck- 
nall Torkard, near the vault of Lord Byron. 


SUPERSTITIONS OF THE ABBEY 



HE anecdotes I had heard of the quondam 
housekeeper of Lord Byron, rendered me de¬ 
sirous of paying her a visit. I rode in com¬ 
pany with Colonel Wildman, therefore, to the cottage of 
her son William, where she resides, and found her seated 
by her fireside, with a favorite cat perched upon her 
shoulder and purring in her ear. Nanny Smith is a 
large, good-looking woman, a specimen of the old-fash¬ 
ioned country housewife, combining antiquated notions 
and prejudices, and very limited information, with nat¬ 
ural good sense. She loves to gossip about the Abbey 
and Lord Byron, and was soon drawn into a course of 
anecdotes, though mostly of an humble kind, such as 
suited the meridian of the housekeeper’s room and ser¬ 
vants’ hall. She seemed to entertain a kind recollection 
of Lord Byron, though she had evidently been much 
perplexed by some of his vagaries ; and especially by 
the means he adopted to counteract his tendency to cor¬ 
pulency. He used various modes to sweat himself 
down : sometimes he would lie for a long time in a warm 
bath, sometimes he would walk up the hills in the park, 

374 





NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 


375 


wrapped up and loaded with great-coats; “ a sad toil for 
the poor youth,” added Nanny, “he being so lame.” 

His meals were scanty and irregular, consisting of 
dishes which Nanny seemed to hold in great contempt, 
such as pilaw, maccaroni, and light puddings. 

She contradicted the report of the licentious life which 
he was reported to lead at the Abbey, and of the para¬ 
mours said to have been brought with him from London. 
“ A great part of his time used to be passed lying on a 
sofa reading. Sometimes he had young gentlemen of his 
acquaintance with him, and they played some mad 
pranks ; but nothing but what young gentlemen may do, 
and no harm done.” 

“ Once, it is true,” she added, “ he had with him a 
beautiful boy as a page, which the housemaids said was 
a girl. For my part, I know nothing about it. Poor 
soul, he was so lame he could not go out much with 
the men; all the comfort he had was to be a little 
with the lasses. The housemaids, however, were very 
jealous; one of them, in particular, took the matter in 
great dudgeon. Her name was Lucy; she was a great 
favorite with Lord Byron, and had been much noticed 
by him, and began to have high notions. She had her 
fortune told by a man who squinted, to whom she gave 
two-and-sixpence. He told her to hold up her head and 
look high, for she would come to great things. Upon 
this,” added Nanny, “ the poor thing dreamt of nothing 
less than becoming a lady, and mistress of the Abbey ) 


376 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


and promised me, if such luck should happen to her, she 
would be a good friend to me. Ah, welladay! Lucy 
never had the fine fortune she dreamt of; but she had 
better than I thought for ; she is now married, and keeps 
a public house at Warwick.” 

Finding that we listened to her with great attention, 
Nanny Smith went on with her gossiping. “ One time,” 
said she, “Lord Byron took a notion that there was a 
deal of money buried about the Abbey by the monks in 
old times, and nothing would serve him but he must 
have the flagging taken up in the cloisters; and they 
digged and digged, but found nothing but stone coffins 
full of bones. Then he must needs have one of the 
coffins put in one end of the great hall, so that the ser¬ 
vants were afraid to go there of nights. Several of the 
skulls were cleaned and put in frames in his room. I 
used to have to go into the room at night to shut the 
windows, and if I glanced an eye at them, they all 
seemed to grin ; which I believe skulls always do. I 
can’t say but I was glad to get out of the room. 

“ There was at one time (and for that matter there is 
still) a good deal said about ghosts haunting about the 
Abbey. The keeper’s wife said she saw two standing in 
a dark part of the cloisters just opposite the chapel, and 
one in the garden by the lord’s well. Then there was 
a young lady, a cousin of Lord Byron, who was staying 
in the Abbey and slept in the room next the clock; and 
she told me that one night when she was lying in bed, 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


377 


she saw a lady in white come out of the wall on one 
side of the room, and go into the wall on the opposite 
side. 

“ Lord Byron one day said to me, ‘ Nanny, what non¬ 
sense they tell about ghosts, as if there ever were any 
such things. I have never seen anything of the kind 
about the Abbey, and I warrant you have not.’ This 
was all done, do you see, to draw me out; but I said 
nothing, but shook my head. However, they say his 
lordship did once see something. It was in the great 
hall: something all black and hairy: he said it was the 
devil. 

“ For my part,” continued Nanny Smith, “ I never saw 
anything of the kind,—but I heard something once. I 
was one evening scrubbing the floor of the little dining¬ 
room at the end of the long gallery; it was after dark; I 
expected every moment to be called to tea, but wished to 
finish what I was about. All at once I heard heavy foot¬ 
steps in the great hall. They sounded like the tramp of 
a horse. I took the light and went to see what it was. 
I heard the steps come from the lower end of the hall to 
the fireplace in the centre, where they stopped; but I 
could see nothing. I returned to my work, and in a 
little time heard the same noise again. I went again 
with the light; the footsteps stopped by the fireplace as 
before; still I could see nothing. I returned to my 
work, when I heard the steps for a third time. I then 
went into the hall without a light, but they stopped just 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


378 

tie same, by the fireplace half-way up the hall. 1 
thought this rather odd, but returned to my work. 
When it was finished, I took the light and went through 
the hall, as that was my way to the kitchen. I heard no 
more footsteps, and thought no more of the matter, 
when, on coming to the lower end of the hall, I found the 
door locked, and then, on one side of the door, I saw the 
stone coffin with the skull and bones that had been 
digged up in the cloisters.” 

Here Nanny paused: I asked her if she believed that 
the mysterious footsteps had any connection with the 
skeleton in the coffin; but she shook her head, and 
would not commit herself. We took our leave of the 
good old dame shortly after, and the story she had re¬ 
lated gave subject for conversation on our ride home¬ 
ward. It was evident she had spoken the truth as to 
what she had heard, but had been deceived by some 
peculiar effect of sound. Noises are propagated about 
a huge irregular edifice of the kind in a very deceptive 
manner; footsteps are prolonged and reverberated by 
the vaulted cloisters and echoing halls; the creaking 
and slamming of distant gates, the rushing of the blast 
through the groves and among the ruined arches of the 
chapel, have all a strangely delusive effect at night. 

Colonel Wildman gave an instance of the kind from 
his own experience. Not long after he had taken up his 
residence at the Abbey, he heard one moonlight night 
a noise as if a carriage was passing at a distance. He 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


379 


opened the window and leaned out. It then seemed as 
if the great iron roller was dragged along the gravel- 
walks and terrace, but there was nothing to be seen. 
When he saw the gardener on the following morning, he 
questioned him about working so late at night. The 
gardener declared that no one had been at work, and 
the roller was chained up. He was sent to examine it, 
and came back with a countenance full of surprise. The 
roller had been moved in the night, but he declared no 
mortal hand could have moved it. “ Well,” replied the 
Colonel, good-humoredly, “I am glad to find I have a 
brownie to work for me.” 

Lord Byron did much to foster and give currency to 
the superstitious tales connected with the Abbey, by 
believing, or pretending to believe in them. Many have 
supposed that his mind was really tinged with supersti¬ 
tion, and that this innate infirmity was increased by 
passing much of his time in a lonely way, about the 
empty halls and cloisters of the Abbey, then in a ruin¬ 
ous melancholy state, and brooding over the skulls and 
effigies of its former inmates. I should rather think 
that he found poetical enjoyment in these supernatural 
themes, and that his imagination delighted to people 
this gloomy and romantic pile with all kinds of shadowy 
inhabitants. Certain it is, the aspect of the mansion 
under the varying influence of twilight and moonlight, 
and cloud and sunshine operating upon its halls, and 
galleries, and monkish cloisters, is enough to breed all 


380 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


kinds of fancies in the minds of its inmates, especially 
if poetically or snperstitionsly inclined. 

I have already mentioned some of the fabled visitants 
of the Abbey. The goblin friar, however, is the one to 
whom Lord Byron has given the greatest importance. 
It walked the cloisters by night, and sometimes glimpses 
of it were seen in other parts of the Abbey. Its appear¬ 
ance was said to portend some impending evil to the 
master of the mansion. Lord Byron pretended to have 
seen it about a month before he contracted his ill-starred 
marriage with Miss Milbanke. 

He has embodied this tradition in the following bal¬ 
lad, in which he represents the friar as one of the 
ancient inmates of the Abbey, maintaining by night a 
kind of spectral possession of it, in right of the frater¬ 
nity. Other traditions, however, represent him as one 
of the friars doomed to wander about the place in atone¬ 
ment for his crimes. But to the ballad. 

t( Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone, 

For he mutters his prayer in the midnight aix; 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 

When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Made Norman Church his prey, 

And expell’d the friars, one friar still 
Would not be driven away. 

* Though he came in his might, with King Henry’s right. 

To turn church lands to lay, 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


381 


With sword in hand, and torch to light 
Their walls, if they said nay, 

A monk remain’d, unchased, unchain’d, 

And he did not seem form’d of clay, 

For he’s seen in the porch, and he’s seen in the church. 
Though he is not seen by day. 

u And whether for good, or whether for ill. 

It is not mine to say ; 

But still to the house of Amundeville 
He abideth night and day. 

By the marriage-bed of their lords, ’tis said. 

He flits on the bridal eve ; 

And ’tis held as faith, to their bed of death 
He comes—but not to grieve. 

;i When an heir is born, he is heard to mourn, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
He walks from hall to hall. 

His form you may trace, but not his face, 

’Tis shadow’d by his cowl; 

But his eyes may be seen from the folds betwee* 

And they seem of a parted soul. 

** But beware! beware of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway, 

For he is yet the church’s heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 

Amundeville is lord by day, 

But the monk is lord by night, 

Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 
To question that friar’s right. 


382 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


“ Say naught to him as he walks the hail. 

And he’ll say naught to you; 

He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 

As o’er the grass the dew. 

Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 

And whatsoe’er may be his prayer. 

Let ours be for his soul.” 

Such is the story of the goblin friar, which, partly 
through old tradition, and partly through the influence 
of Lord Byron’s rhymes, has become completely estab¬ 
lished in the Abbey, and threatens to hold possession as 
long as the old edifice shall endure. Various visitors 
have either fancied, or pretended to have seen him, and 
a cousin of Lord Byron, Miss Sally Parkins, is even said 
to have made a sketch of him from memory. As to the 
servants of the Abbey, they have become possessed with 
all kinds of superstitious fancies. The long corridors 
and Gothic halls, with their ancient portraits and dark 
figures in armor, are all haunted regions to them ; they 
even fear to sleep alone, and will scarce venture at night 
on any distant errand about the Abbey, unless they go 
in couples. 

Even the magnificent chamber in which I was lodged 
was subject to the supernatural influences which reigned 
over the Abbey, and was said to be haunted by “ Sir 
John Byron the Little with the great Beard.” The 
ancient black-looking portrait of this family worthy, 


NEW STEAD ABBEY. 


383 


which hangs over the door of the great saloon, was said 
to descend occasionally at midnight from the frame, and 
walk the rounds of the state apartments. Nay, his visi¬ 
tations were not confined to the night, for a young lady, 
on a visit to the Abbey some years since, declared that, 
on passing in broad day by the door of the identical 
chamber I have described, which stood partly open, she 
saw Sir John Byron the Little seated by the fireplace, 
reading out of a great black-letter book. From this cir¬ 
cumstance some have been led to suppose that the story 
of Sir John Byron may be in some measure connected 
with the mysterious sculptures of the chimneypiece al¬ 
ready mentioned; but this has no countenance from the 
most authentic antiquarians of the Abbey. 

For my own part, the moment I learned the wonder¬ 
ful stories and strange suppositions connected with my 
apartment, it became an imaginary realm to me. As I 
lay in bed at night and gazed at the mysterious panel- 
work, where Gothic knight, Christian dame, and Paynim 
lover gazed upon me in effigy, I used to weave a thou¬ 
sand fancies concerning them. The great figures in the 
tapestry, also, were almost animated by the workings of 
my imagination, and the Vandyke portraits of the cava¬ 
lier and lady that looked down with pale aspects from 
the wall, had almost a spectral effect, from their immov¬ 
able gaze and silent companionship;— 

“ For by dim lights the portraits of the dead 
Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 


384 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


.. .Their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvas ; their eyes glance like dreams 
On ours, as spars within some dusky cave, 

But death is mingled in their shadowy beams.” 

In this way I used to conjure up fictions of the brain, 
and clothe the objects around me with ideal interest and 
import, until, as the Abbey clock tolled midnight, I 
almost looked to see Sir John Byron the Little with the 
long Beard stalk into the room with his book under his 
arm, and take his seat beside the mysterious chimney- 
piece. 




ANNESLEY HALL. 


T about three miles’ distance from Newstead 
Abbey, and contiguous to its lands, is situated 
Annesley Hall, the old family mansion of the 
Chawortlis. The families, like the estates, of the Byrons 
and Chaworths were connected in former times, until the 
fatal duel between their two representatives. The feud, 
however, which prevailed for a time, promised to be can¬ 
celled by the attachment of two youthful hearts. While 
Lord Byron was yet a boy, he beheld Mary Ann Cha- 
worth, a beautiful girl, and the sole heiress of Annesley. 
With that susceptibility to female charms which he 
evinced almost from childhood, he became almost im¬ 
mediately enamored of her. According to one of his 
biographers, it would appear that at first their attach¬ 
ment was mutual, yet clandestine. The father of Miss 
(Jhaworth was then living, and may have retained some¬ 
what of the family hostility, for we are told that the in¬ 
terviews of Lord Byron and the young lady were private, 
at a gate which opened from her father’s grounds to 
those of Newstead. However, they were so young at the 
time that these meetings could not have been regarded 
25 _ , 385 






386 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


as of any importance : they were little more than chil¬ 
dren in years; but, as Lord Byron says of himself, his 
feelings were beyond his age. 

The passion thus early conceived was blown into a 
flame, during a six weeks’ vacation which he passed with 
his mother at Nottingham. The father of Miss Cha- 
worth was dead, and she resided with her mother at the 
old Hall of Annesley. During Byron’s minority, the 
estate of Newstead was let to Lord Grey de Buthen, but 
its youthful Lord was always a welcome guest at the 
Abbey. He would pass days at a time there, and make 
frequent visits thence to Annesley Hall. His visits were 
encouraged by Miss Chaworth’s mother; she partook 
none of the family feud, and probably looked with com¬ 
placency upon an attachment that might heal old differ¬ 
ences and unite two neighboring estates. 

The six weeks’ vacation passed as a dream amongst the 
beautiful flowers of Annesley. Byron was scarce fifteen 
years of age, Mary Chaworth was two years older; but 
his heart, as I have said, was beyond his age, and his 
tenderness for her was deep and passionate. These early 
loves, like the first run of the uncruslied grape, are the 
sweetest and strongest gushings of the heart, and how¬ 
ever they may be superseded by other attachments in 
after-years, the memory will continually recur to them, 
and fondly dwell upon their recollections. 

His love for Miss Chaworth, to use Lord Byron’s own 
expression, was “ the romance of the most romantic pe- 



NEW STEAD ABBEY. 


387 


riod of liis life,” and I think we can trace the effect of 
it throughout the whole course of his writings, coming 
up every now and then, like some lurking theme which 
runs through a complicated piece of music, and links it 
all in a pervading chain of melody. 

How tenderly and mournfully does he recall, in after¬ 
years, the feelings awakened in his youthful and inex¬ 
perienced bosom by this impassioned, yet innocent at¬ 
tachment; feelings, he says, lost or hardened in the 
intercourse of life:— 

“ The love of better things and better days ; 

The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is called the world, and the world’s ways ; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise, 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne’er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own, 

Of which another’s bosom is the zone.” 

Whether this love was really responded to by the ob¬ 
ject, is uncertain. Byron sometimes speaks as if he had 
met with kindness in return, at other times he acknowl¬ 
edges that she never gave him reason to believe she 
loved him. It is probable, however, that at first she 
experienced some flutterings of the heart. She was of 
a susceptible age; had as yet formed no other attach¬ 
ments ; her lover, though boyish in years, was a man in 
intellect, a poet in imagination, and had a countenance 
of remarkable beauty. 


338 


CRAYON M rS CELL AN Y. 


With the six weeks’ vacation ended this brief romance. 
Byron returned to school deeply enamored; but if he 
had really made any impression on Miss Chaworth’s 
heart, it was too slight to stand the test of absence. She 
was at that age when a female soon changes from the 
girl to the woman, and leaves her boyish lovers far 
behind her. While Byron was pursuing his school-boy 
studies, she was mingling with society, and met with a 
gentleman of the name of Musters, remarkable, it is 
said, for manly beauty. A story is told of her having 
first seen him from the top of Annesley Hall, as he 
dashed through the park, with hound and horn, taking 
the lead of the whole field in a fox-chase, and that she 
was struck by the spirit of his appearance, and his ad¬ 
mirable horsemanship. Under such favorable auspices 
he wooed and won her; and when Lord Byron next met 
her, he learned to his dismay that she was the affianced 
bride of another. 

With that pride of spirit which always distinguished 
him, he controlled his feelings and maintained a serene 
countenance. He even affected to speak calmly on the 
subject of her approaching nuptials. “The next time 
I see you/ said he, “I suppose you will be Mrs. Cha- 
worth/ (for she was to retain her family name.) Her 
reply was, “I hope so. 

I have given these brief details preparatory to a 
sketch of a visit which I made to the scene of this 
youthful romance. Annesley Hall I understood was 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


389 


shut up, neglected, and almost in a state of desolation; 
for Mr. Musters rarely visited it, residing with his fam¬ 
ily in the neighborhood of Nottingham. I set out for 
the Hall on horseback, in company with Colonel Wild- 
man, and followed by the great Newfoundland dog Boat¬ 
swain. In the course of our ride we visited a spot mem¬ 
orable in the love-story I have cited. It was the scene 
of this parting interview between Byron and Miss Cha- 
worth, prior to her marriage. A long ridge of upland 
advances into the valley of Newstead, like a promontory 
into a lake, and was formerly crowned by a beautiful 
grove, a landmark to the neighboring country. The 
grove and promontory are graphically described by 
Lord Byron in his “Dream,” and an exquisite picture 
given of himself, and the lovely object of his boyish 
idolatry 

“I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 

Green, and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 

Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 

But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men. 

Scatter’d at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs the hill 
Was crown’d with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, 

Not by the sport of Nature, but of man: 

These two a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing— the one on all that was beneath 


390 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her ; 

And both were fair, and one was beautiful: 

And both were young—yet not unlike in youth. 

As the sweet moon in the horizon’s verge, 

The maid was on the verge of womanhood : 

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 

And that was shining on him.” 

I stood upon the spot consecrated by this memorable 
interview. Below me extended the “ living landscape,” 
once contemplated by the loving pair; the gentle valley 
of Newstead, diversified by woods and cornfields, and vil¬ 
lage spires, and gleams of water, and the distant towers 
and pinnacles of the venerable Abbey. The diadem of 
trees, however, was gone. The attention drawn to it by 
the poet, and the romantic manner in which he had as¬ 
sociated it with his early passion for Mary Chaworth, 
had nettled the irritable feelings of her husband, who 
but ill brooked the poetic celebrity conferred on his wife 
by the enamored verses of another. The celebrated grove 
stood on his estate, and in a fit of spleen he ordered 
it to be levelled with the dust. At the time of my visit 
the mere roots of the trees were visible; but the hand 
that laid them low is execrated by every poetical pilgrim. 

Descending the hill, we soon entered a part of what 
once was Annesley Park, and rode among time-worn and 
tempest-riven oaks and elms, with ivy clambering about 
their trunks, and rooks’ nests among their brancheSi 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY ., 


391 


The park had been cut up by a post-road, crossing which, 
we came to the gate-house of Annesley Hall. It was an 
old brick building that might have served as an outpost 
or barbacan to the Hall during the civil wars, when 
every gentleman’s house was liable to become a for 
tress. Loopholes were still visible in its walls, but the 
peaceful ivy had mantled the sides, overrun the roof, and 
almost buried the ancient clock in front, that still marked 
the waning hours of its decay. 

An arched way led through the centre of the gate¬ 
house, secured by grated doors of open iron-work, 
wrought into flowers and flourishes. These being thrown 
open, we entered a paved court-yard, decorated with 
shrubs and antique flower-pots, with a ruined stone 
fountain in the centre. The whole approach resembled 
that of an old French chateau. 

On one side of the court-yard was a range of stables, 
now tenantless, but which bore traces of the fox-hunting 
squire; for there were stalls boxed up, into which the 
hunters might be turned loose when they came home 
from the chase. 

At the lower end of the court, and immediately oppo¬ 
site the gate-house, extended the Hall itself; a rambling, 
irregular pile, patched and pieced at various times, and 
in various tastes, with gable ends, stone balustrades, and 
enormous chimneys, that strutted out like buttresses 
from the walls. The whole front of the edifice was over¬ 
run with evergreens. 


392 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


We applied for admission at the front door, which was 
under a heavy porch. The portal was strongly barrica- 
doed, and our knocking was echoed by waste and empty 
halls. Everything bore an appearance of abandonment. 
After a time, however, our knocking summoned a solitary 
tenant from some remote corner of the pile. It was a 
decent-looking little dame, who emerged from a side- 
door at a distance, and seemed a worthy inmate of the 
antiquated mansion. She had, in fact, grown old with it. 
Her name, she said, was Nanny Marsden; if she lived 
until next August, she would be seventy-one: a great 
part of her life had been passed in the Hall, and when 
the family had removed to Nottingham, she had been 
left in charge of it. The front of the house had been 
thus warily barricadoed in consequence of the late riots 
at Nottingham, in the course of which the dwelling of 
her master had been sacked by the mob. To guard 
against any attempt of the kind upon the Hall, she had 
put it in this state of defence ; though I rather think she 
and a superannuated gardener comprised the whole gar¬ 
rison. “ You must be attached to the old building,” said 
I, “ after having lived so long in it.”—“ Ah, sir! ” replied 
she, “ I am getting in years, and have a furnished cottage 
of my own in Annesley Wood, and begin to feel as if I 
should like to go and live in my own home.” 

Guided by the worthy little custodian of the fortress, 
we entered through the sally-port by which she had 
issued forth, and soon found ourselves in a spacious but 



NEWSTEAD ABBEY\ 


393 


somewhat gloomy hall, where the light was partially ad¬ 
mitted through square stone-shafted windows, overhung 
with ivy. Everything around us had the air of an old- 
fashioned country squire’s establishment. In the centre 
of the hall was a billiard table, and about the walls were 
hung portraits of race-horses, hunters, and favorite dogs, 
mingled indiscriminately with family pictures. 

Staircases led up from the hall to various apartments. 
In one of the rooms we were shown a couple of buff jer¬ 
kins, and a pair of ancient jackboots, of the time of the 
cavaliers; relics which are often to be met with in the 
old English family mansions. These, however, had pe¬ 
culiar value, for the good little dame assured us they had 
belonged to Robin Hood. As we were in the midst of 
the region over which that famous outlaw once bore 
ruffian sway, it was not for us to gainsay his claim to any 
of these venerable relics, though we might have de¬ 
murred that the articles of dress here shown were of a 
date much later than his time. Every antiquity, how¬ 
ever, about Sherwood Forest is apt to be linked with the 
memory of Robin Hood and his gang. 

As we were strolling about the mansion, our four- 
footed attendant, Boatswain, followed leisurely, as if tak¬ 
ing a survey of the premises. I turned to rebuke him 
for his intrusion, but the moment the old housekeeper 
understood he had belonged to Lord Byron, her heart 
seem to yearn towards him. 

“Nay, nay,” exclaimed she, “let him alone, let him go 


394 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


where he pleases. He’s welcome. Ah, dear me ! If he 
lived here I should take great care of him—he should 
want for nothing. Well! ” continued she, fondling him, 
“who would have thought that I should see a dog of 
Lord Byron in Annesley Hall! ” 

“I suppose, then,” said I, “you recollect something 
of Lord Byron, when he used to visit here?”—“Ah, 
bless him! ” cried she, “ that I do ! He used to ride 
over here and stay three days at a time, and sleep in 
the blue room. Ah! poor fellow! He was very much 
taken with my young mistress; he used to walk about 
the garden and the terraces with her, and seemed to 
love the very ground she trod on. He used to call her 
his bright morning star of Annesley.” 

I felt the beautiful poetic phrase thrill through me. 

“You appear to like the memory of Lord Byron,” 
said I. 

“ Ah, sir! why should not I ? He was always main 
good to me when he came here. Well! well! they say 
it is a pity he and my young lady did not make a match. 
Her mother would have liked it. He was always a wel¬ 
come guest, and some think it would have been well for 
him to have had her; but it was not to be! He went 
away to school, and then Mr. Musters saw her, and so 
things took their course.” 

The simple soul now showed us into the favorite sit¬ 
ting-room of Miss Chaworth, with a small flower-garden 
under the windows, in which she had delighted. In this 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


395 


room Byron used to sit and listen to her as she played 
and sang, gazing upon her with the passionate and al¬ 
most painful devotion of a love-sick stripling. He him¬ 
self gives us a glowing picture of his mute idolatry:— 

“ He had no breath, no being, but in hers ; 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 

But trembled on her words ; she was his sight, 

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, 

Which colored all his objects ;—he had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 

Which terminated all : upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony.” 

There was a little Welsh air, called “ Mary Ann,” 
which, from bearing her own name, he associated with 
herself, and often persuaded her to sing it over and over 
for him. 

The chamber, like all the other parts of the house, had 
a look of sadness and neglect; the flower-pots beneath 
the window, which once bloomed beneath the hand of 
Mary Chaworth, were overrun with weeds ; and the pi¬ 
ano, which had once vibrated to her touch, and thrilled 
the heart of her stripling lover, was now unstrung and 
out of tune. 

We continued our stroll about the waste apartments, 
of all shapes and sizes, and without much elegance of 
decoration. Some of them were hung with family por- 


396 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


traits, among which was pointed out that of the Mr. Cha- 
worth who was killed by the “ wicked Lord Byron.” 

These dismal-looking portraits had a powerful effect 
upon the imagination of the stripling poet, on his first 
visit to the Hall. As they gazed down from the wall, he 
thought they scowled upon him, as if they had taken a 
grudge against him on account of the duel of his ances¬ 
tor. He even gave this as a reason, though probably in 
jest, for not sleeping at the Hall, declaring that he feared 
they would come down from their frames at night to 
haunt him. 

A feeling of the kind he has embodied in one of his 
stanzas of “ Don Juan ” : 

“ The forms of the grim knights and pictured saints 
Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 
Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
Of your own footsteps—voices from the urn 
Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
Start from the frames which fence their aspects stem, 

As if to ask you how you dare to keep 
A vigil there, where all but death should sleep.” 

Nor was the youthful poet singular in these fancies; 
the Hall, like most old English mansions that have 
ancient family portraits hanging about their dusky gal¬ 
leries and waste apartments, had its ghost-story con¬ 
nected with these pale memorials of the dead. Our 
simple-hearted conductor stopped before the portrait of 
a lady, who had been a beauty in her time, and inhabited 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


397 


the Hall in the heyday of her charms. Something mys¬ 
terious or melancholy was connected with her story ; she 
died young, but continued for a long time to haunt the 
ancient mansion, to the great dismay of the servants, and 
the occasional disquiet of the visitors, and it was with 
much difficulty her troubled spirit was conjured down 
and put to rest. 

From the rear of the Hall we walked out into the gar¬ 
den, about which Byron used to stroll and loiter in com¬ 
pany with Miss Chaworth. It was laid out in the old 
French style. There was a long terraced walk, with 
heavy stone balustrades and sculptured urns, overrun 
with ivy and evergreens. A neglected shrubbery bor¬ 
dered one side of the terrace, with a lofty grove inhab¬ 
ited by a venerable community of rooks. Great flights 
of steps led down from the terrace to a flower-garden, 
laid out in formal plots. The rear of the Hall, which 
overlooked the garden, had the weather-stains of centu¬ 
ries ; and its stone-shafted casements, and an ancient sun¬ 
dial against its walls, carried back the mind to days of 
yore. 

The retired and quiet garden, once a little sequestered 
world of love and romance, was now all matted and wild, 
yet was beautiful even in its decay. Its air of neglect 
and desolation was in unison with the fortune of the two 
beings who had once walked here in the freshness of 
youth, and life, and beauty. The garden, like their 
young hearts, had gone to waste and ruin. 


398 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Returning to the Hall, we now visited a chamber built 
over the porch, or grand entrance; it was in a ruinous 
condition, the ceiling having fallen in, and the floor given 
way. This, however, is a chamber rendered interesting 
by poetical associations. It is supposed to be the ora¬ 
tory alluded to by Lord Byron in his “ Dream,” wherein 
he pictures his departure from Annesley, after learning 
that Mary Chaworth was engaged to be married. 

“ There was an ancient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison’d; 

Within an antique Oratory stood 

The Boy of whom I spake ;—he was alone. 

And pale and pacing to and fro : anon 
He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he lean’d 
His bow’d head on his hands, and shook as ’twere 
With a convulsion—then arose again, 

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
What he had written, but he shed no tears. 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, 

The lady of his love reentered there ; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved,—she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 
Was darken’d with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand; a moment o’er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded as it came ; 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


399 


He dropp’d the hand he held, and with slow steps 
Return’d, but not as bidding her adieu. 

For they did part with mutual smiles :—he pass’d 
From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way. 

And ne’er repass’d that hoary threshold more.” 

In one of his journals, Lord Byron describes his feel¬ 
ings after thus leaving the oratory. Arriving on the sum¬ 
mit of a hill, which commanded the last view of Annes- 
ley, he checked his horse, and gazed back with mingled 
pain and fondness upon the groves which embowered the 
Hall, and thought upon the lovely being that dwelt 
there, until his feelings were quite dissolved in tender¬ 
ness. The conviction at length recurred that she never 
could be his, when, rousing himself from his reverie, he 
struck his spurs into his steed and dashed forward, as if 
by rapid motion to leave reflection behind him. 

Yet, notwithstanding what he asserts in the verses last 
quoted, he did pass the “hoary threshold” of Annesley 
again. It was, however, after the lapse of several years, 
during which he had grown up to manhood, had passed 
through the ordeal of pleasures and tumultuous passions, 
and had felt the influence of other charms. Miss Cha- 
worth, too, had become a wife and a mother, and he 
dined at Annesley Hall at the invitation of her husband. 
He thus met the object of his early idolatry in the very 
scene of his tender devotions, which, as he says, her 
smiles had once made a heaven to him. The scene was 
but little changed. He was in the very chamber where 


400 


CnA YON MISCELLANY. 


lie had so often listened entranced, to the witchery of her 
voice ; there were the same instruments and music; there 
lay her flower-garden beneath the window, and the walks 
through which he had wandered with her in the intoxi¬ 
cation of youthful love. Can we wonder that amidst the 
tender recollections which every object around him was 
calculated to awaken, the fond passion of his boyhood 
should rush back in full current to his heart ? He was 
himself surprised at this sudden revulsion of his feelings, 
but he had acquired self-possession and could command 
them. His firmness, however, was doomed to undergo a 
further trial. While seated by the object of his secret 
devotions, with all these recollections throbbing in his 
bosom her infant daughter was brought into the room. 
At sight of the child he started; it dispelled the last 
lingerings of his dream, and he afterwards confessed, 
that to repress his emotion at the moment, was the 
severest part of his task. 

The conflict of feelings that raged within his bosom 
throughout this fond and tender, yet painful and embar¬ 
rassing visit, are touchingly depicted in lines which he 
wrote immediately afterwards, and which, though not 
addressed to her by name, are evidently intended for the 
eye and the heart of the fair lady of Annesley : 

“ Well! thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 



NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 


401 


“ Thy husband’s blest—and ’twill impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot: 

But let them pass—Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not! 

“ When late I saw thy favorite child 

I thought my jealous heart would break; 
But when the unconscious infant smiled, 

I kiss’d it for its mother’s sake. 

“ I kiss’d it, and repress’d my sighs 
Its father in its face to see ; 

But then it had its mother’s eyes, 

And thev were all to love and me. 

“ Mary, adieu ! I must away : 

While thou art blest I’ll not repine ; 

But near thee I can never stay : 

My heart would soon again be thine. 

“ I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride 
Had quench’d at length my boyish flame | 
Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 

My heart in all, save love, the same. 

w Yet I was calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look ; 
But now to tremble were a crime— 

We met, and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face, 

Yet meet with no confusion there : 

One only feeling couldst thou trace ; 

The sullen calmness of despair. 


26 


402 


CRAYON MISCELLANY, 


“ Away ! away I my early dream 

Remembrance never must awake : 

Oh ! where is Lethe’s fabled stream ? 

My foolish heart, be still, or break.” 

The revival of this early passion, and the melancholy 
associations which it spread over those scenes in the 
neighborhood of Newstead, which would necessarily be 
the places of his frequent resort while in England, are 
alluded to by him as a principal cause of his first depart¬ 
ure for the Continent:— 

“ When man expell’d from Eden’s bowers 
A moment lingered near the gate, 

Each scene recalled the vanish’d hours. 

And bade him curse his future fate. 

“ But wandering on through distant climes. 

He learnt to bear his load of grief ; 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 

And found in busier scenes relief. 

** Thus Mary must it be with me, 

And I must view thy charms no mort ; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 

I sigh for all I knew before.” 


It was in the subsequent June that he set off on his 
pilgrimage by sea and land, which was to become the 
theme of his immortal poem. That the image of Mary 
Chaworth, as he saw and loved her in the days of his 
boyhood, followed him to the very shore, is shown in 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


403 


the glowing stanzas addressed to her on the 
embarkation:— 

“ ’Tis done—and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail; 

And whistling o’er the bending mast, 

Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast; 

And I must from this land be gone, 

Because I cannot love but one. 

“ And I will cross the whitening foam. 

And I will seek a foreign home ; 

Till I forget a false fair face, 

I ne’er shall find a resting place, 

My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 

But ever love, and love but one. 

“ To think of every early scene, 

Of what we are, and what we’ve been, 

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe*- 
But mine, alas ! has stood the blow; 

Yet still beats on as it begun, 

And never truly loves but one. 

Si And who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 

And why that early love was cross’d, 

Thou know’st the best, I feel the most; 

But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

“ I’ve tried another’s fetters too, 

With charms, perchance, as fair to view; 

And I would fain have loved as well, 

But some unconquerable spell 


eve of 


404 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

“ ’Twould soothe to take one lingering view 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 

Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him who wanders o’er the deep ; 

His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 

Yet still he loves and loves but one.” 

The painful interview at Annesley Hall which revived 
with such intenseness his early passion, remained 
stamped upon his memory with singular force, and 
seems to have survived all his “ wandering through dis¬ 
tant climes,” to which he trusted as an oblivious anti¬ 
dote. Upwards of two years after that event, when, hav¬ 
ing made his famous pilgrimage, he was once more an 
inmate of Newstead Abbey, his vicinity to Annesley Hall 
brought the whole scene vividly before him, and he thus 
recalls it in a poetic epistle to a friend:— 

“ I’ve seen my bride another’s bride,— 

Have seen her seated by his side,— 

Have seen the infant which she bore, 

Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, 

When she and I in youth have smiled 
As fond and faultless as her child:— 

Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, 

Ask if I felt no secret pain. 

“ And I have acted well my part, 

And made my cheek belie my heart, 




NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


405 


Return’d the freezing glance she gave, 

Yet felt the while that woman’s slave ;— 

Have kiss’d, as if without design, 

The babe which ought to have been mine, 

And show’d, ala,s ! in each caress, 

Time had not made me love the less.” 

“It was about the time,” says Moore in his life oj 
Lord Byron, “when he was thus bitterly feeling and ex¬ 
pressing the blight which his heart had suffered from a 
real object of affection, that his poems on an imaginary 
one, ‘Thyrza,’ were written.” He was at the same time 
grieving over the loss of several of his earliest and dear¬ 
est friends, the companions of his joyous schoolboy 
hours. To recur to the beautiful language of Moore, 
who writes with the kindred and kindling sympathies 
of a true poet: “All these recollections of the young and 
the dead mingled themselves in his mind with the image 
of her who, though living, was, for him, as much lost as 
they, and diffused that general feeling of sadness and 
fondness through his soul, which found a vent in these 

poems.It was the blending of the two affections 

in his memory and imagination, that gave birth to an 
ideal object combining the best features of both, and 
drew from him those saddest and tenderest of love- 
poems, in which we find all the depth and intensity of 
real feeling, touched over with such a light as no reality 
ever wore.” 

An early, innocent, and unfortunate passion, however 



406 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


fruitful of pain it may be to the man, is a lasting advan¬ 
tage to the poet. It is a well of sweet and bitter fancies; 
of refined and gentle sentiments; of elevated and enno¬ 
bling thoughts; shut up in the deep recesses of the 
heart, keeping it green amidst the withering blights of 
the world, and, by its casual gushings and overflowings, 
recalling at times all the freshness, and innocence, and 
enthusiasm of youthful days. Lord Byron was conscious 
of this effect, and purposely cherished and brooded over 
the remembrance of his early passion, and of all the 
scenes of Annesley Hall connected with it. It was this 
remembrance that attuned his mind to some of its most 
elevated and virtuous strains, and shed an inexpressible 
grace and pathos over his best productions. 

Being thus put upon the traces of this little love-story, 
I cannot refrain from threading them out, as they appear 
from time to time in various passages of Lord Byron’s 
works. During his subsequent rambles in the East, 
when time and distance had softened away his “ early 
romance ” almost into the remembrance of a pleasing and 
tender dream, he received accounts of the object of it, 
which represented her, still in her paternal Hall, among 
her native bowers of Annesley, surrounded by a bloom¬ 
ing and beautiful family, yet a prey to secret and wither¬ 
ing melancholy:— 

“ In her home, 

A thousand leagues from his,—her native home. 

She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, 

Daughters and sons of beauty, but—behold! 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


407 


Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 

As if its lids were charged with unshed tears” 

For an instant the buried tenderness of early youth, 
and the fluttering hopes which accompanied it, seemed 
to have revived in his bosom, and the idea to have 
flashed upon his mind that his image might be connected 
with her secret woes; but he rejected the thought almost 
as soon as formed. 

“ What could her grief be ?—she had all she loved, 

And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 

Or ill repress’d affection, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be ?—she had loved him not, 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, , 

Nor could he be a part of that which prey’d 
Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.” 

The cause of her grief was a matter of rural comment 
in the neighborhood of Newstead and Annesley. It was 
disconnected from all idea of Lord Byron, but attributed 
to the harsh and capricious conduct of one to whose 
kindness and affection she had a sacred claim. The do¬ 
mestic sorrows, which had long preyed in secret on her 
heart, at length affected her intellect, and the “bright 
morning star of Annesley ” was eclipsed forever. 

“The lady of his love,—oh ! she was changed 
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind 


408 


CRA TON MISCELLANY. 


Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, 

They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm : but her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 

An d forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others’ sight, familiar were to hers. 

And this the world calls frenzy.” 

Notwithstanding lapse of time, change of place, and a 
succession of splendid and spirit-stirring scenes in va¬ 
rious countries, the quiet and gentle scene of his boyish 
love seems to have held a magic sway over the recollec¬ 
tions of Lord Byron, and the image of Mary Chaworth to 
have unexpectedly obtruded itself upon his mind like 
some supernatural visitation. Such was the fact on the 
occasion of his marriage with Miss Milbanke; Annesley 
Hall and all its fond associations floated like a vision 
before his thoughts, even when at the altar, and on the 
point of pronouncing the nuptial vows. The circum¬ 
stance is related by him with a force and feeling that 
persuade us of its truth. 

“ A change came o’er the spirit of my dream. 

The wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand 
Before an altar—with a gentle bride ; 

Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The star-light of his boyhood;—as he stood 
Even at the altar, o’er his brow there came 
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique oratory shook 


NEWtiTEAD ABBEY. 


409 


His bosom in its solitude ; and then— 

As in that hour—a moment o’er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced,—and then it faded as it came, 

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 

And all things reel’d around him : he could see 

Not that which was, nor that which should have been— 

But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, 

And the remember’d chambers, and the place, 

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 

All things pertaining to that place and hour, 

And her who was his destiny, came back, 

And thrust themselves between him and the light: 

What business had they there at such a time ? ” 

The history of Lord Byron’s union is too well known 
to need narration. The errors, and humiliations, and 
heart-burnings that followed upon it, gave additional 
effect to the remembrance of his early passion, and tor¬ 
mented him with the idea, that, had he been successful 
in his suit to the lovely heiress of Annesley, they might 
both have shared a happier destiny. In one of his 
manuscripts, written long after his marriage, having ac¬ 
cidentally mentioned Miss Chaworth as “ My M. A. C.,” 
—“ Alas ! ” exclaims he, with a sudden burst of feeling, 
“why do I say my? Our union would have healed 
feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers; it 
would have joined lands broad and rich; it would have 
joined at least one heart, and two persons not ill-matched 
in years—and-—and—and—what has been the result? ” 


410 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


But enough of Anneslej Hall and the poetical themes 
connected with it. I felt as if I could linger for hours 
about its ruined oratory, and silent hall, and neglected 
garden, and spin reveries and dream dreams, until all 
became an ideal world around me. The day, however, 
was fast declining, and the shadows of evening throwing 
deeper shades of melancholy about the place. Taking 
our leave of the worthy old housekeeper, therefore, with 
a small compensation and many thanks for her civilities, 
we mounted our horses and pursued our way back to 
Newstead Abbey. 


THE LAKE. 


“Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
By a river, which its softened way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 
Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 

The woods sloped downward to its brink, and stood 
With their green faces fixed upon the flood.” 

UCH is Lord Byron’s description of one of a 
series of beautiful sheets of water, formed in 
old times by the monks by damming up the 
course of a small river. Here he used daily to enjoy 
his favorite recreations of swimming and sailing. The 
“ wicked old Lord,” in his scheme of rural devastation, 
had cut down all the woods that once fringed the lake ; 
Lord Byron, on coming of age, endeavored to restore 
them, and a beautiful young wood, planted by him, now 
sweeps up from the water’s edge, and clothes the hill¬ 
side opposite to the Abbey. To this woody nook Colo¬ 
nel Wildman has given the appropriate title of “The 
Poet’s Corner.” 

The lake has inherited its share of the traditions and 
fables connected with everything in and about the Ab' 

411 





412 


CRA YON MISCELLANY. 


bey. It was a petty Mediterranean sea on which the 
“wicked old Lord” used to gratify his nautical tastes 
and humors. He had his mimic castles and fortresses 
along its shores, and his mimic fleets upon its waters, 
and used to get up mimic sea-fights. The remains of 
his petty fortifications still awaken the curious inquiries 
of visitors. In one of his vagaries, he caused a large 
vessel to be brought on wheels from the sea-coast and 
launched in the lake. The country people were sur¬ 
prised to see a ship thus sailing over dry land. They 
called to mind a saying of Mother Shipton, the famous 
prophet of the vulgar, that whenever a ship freighted 
with ling should cross Sherwood Forest, Newstead would 
pass out of the Byron family. The country people, who 
detested the old Lord, were anxious to verify the proph¬ 
ecy. Ling, in the dialect of Nottingham, is the name for 
heather; with this plant they heaped the fated bark as 
it passed, so that it arrived full freighted at Newstead. 

The most important stories about the lake, however, 
relate to the treasures that are supposed to lie buried 
in its bosom. These may have taken their origin in a 
fact which actually occurred. There was one time fished 
up from the deep part of the lake a great eagle of molten 
brass, with expanded wings, standing on a pedestal or 
perch of the same metal. It had doubtless served as a 
stand or reading-desk, in the Abbey chapel, to hold a 
folio Bible or missal. 

The sacred relic was sent to a brazier to be cleaned. 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


413 


As he was at work upon it, he discovered that the pedes¬ 
tal was hollow and composed of several pieces. Un¬ 
screwing these, he drew forth a number of parchment 
deeds and grants appertaining to the Abbey, and bearing 
the seals of Edward III. and Henry VIII., which had 
thus been concealed, and ultimately sunk in the lake 
by the friars, to substantiate their right and title to these 
domains at some future day. 

One of the parchment scrolls thus discovered throws 
rather an awkward light upon the kind of life led by the 
friars of Newstead. It is an indulgence granted to them 
for a certain number of months, in which plenary pardon 
is assured in advance for all kinds of crimes, among 
which several of the most gross and sensual are specifi¬ 
cally mentioned, and the weaknesses of the flesh to which 
they were prone. 

After inspecting these testimonials of monkish life, in 
the regions of Sherwood Forest, we cease to wonder at 
the virtuous indignation of Robin Hood and his outlaw 
crew, at the sleek sensualists of the cloister :— 

“ I never hurt the husbandman, 

That use to till the ground, 

Nor spill their blood that range the wood 
To follow hawk and hound. 

“ My chiefest spite to clergy is, 

"Who in these days bear sway; 

With friars and monks with their fine spunks, 

I make my chiefest prey.” 

Old Ballad of Robin Hood. 


414 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


The brazen eagle has been transferred to the pa¬ 
rochial and collegiate church of Southall, about twenty 
miles from Newstead, where it may still be seen in the 
centre of the chancel, supporting, as of yore, a ponderous 
Bible. As to the documents it contained, they are care¬ 
fully treasured up by Colonel Wildman among his other 
deeds and papers, in an iron chest secured by a patent 
lock of nine bolts, almost equal to a magic spell. 

The fishing up of this brazen relic, as I have already 
hinted, has given rise to the tales of treasure lying at the 
bottom of the lake, thrown in there by the monks when 
they abandoned the Abbey. The favorite story is, that 
there is a great iron chest there filled with gold and 
jewels, and chalices and crucifixes; nay, that it has been 
seen, when the water of the lake was unusually low. 
There were large iron rings at each end, but all attempts 
to move it were ineffectual; either the gold it contained 
was too ponderous, or, what is more probable, it was 
secured by one of those magic spells usually laid upon 
hidden treasure. It remains, therefore, at the bottom of 
the lake to this day, and, it is to be hoped, may one day 
or other be discovered by the present worthy proprietor. 


ROBIN HOOD AND SHERWOOD FOREST. 


HILE at Newstead Abbey I took great delight 
in riding and rambling about the neighbor¬ 
hood, studying out the traces of merry Sher¬ 
wood Forest, and visiting the haunts of Robin Hood. 
The relics of the old forest are few and scattered, but as 
to the bold outlaw who once held a kind of freebooting 
sway over it, there is scarce a hill or dale, a cliff or 
cavern, a well or fountain, in this part of the country, 
that is not connected with his memory. The very names 
of some of the tenants on the Newstead estate, such as 
Beardall and Hardstaff, sound as if they may have been 
borne in old times by some of the stalwart fellows of the 
outlaw gang. 

One of the earliest books that captivated my fancy 
when a child, was a collection of Robin Hood ballads, 
“adorned with cuts,” which I bought of an old Scotch 
pedlar, at the cost of all my holiday money. How I 
devoured its pages, and gazed upon its uncouth wood- 
cuts ! For a time my mind was filled with picturings of 
“ merry Sherwood,” and the exploits and revelling of the 
bold foresters; and Robin Hood, Little John, Friar 

415 







416 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


Tuck, and their doughty compeers, were my heroes of 
romance. 

These early feelings were in some degree revived when 
I found myself in the very heart of the far-famed forest, 
and, as I said before, I took a kind of schoolboy delight 
in hunting up all traces of old Sherwood and its sylvan 
chivalry. One of the first of my antiquarian rambles was 
on horseback, in company with Colonel Wildman and his 
lady, who undertook to guide me to some of the moulder¬ 
ing monuments of the forest. One of these stands in 
front of the very gate of Newstead Park, and is known 
throughout the country by the name of “The Pilgrim 
Oak.” It is a venerable tree, of great size, overshadow¬ 
ing a wide area of the road. Under its shade the rustics 
of the neighborhood have been accustomed to assemble 
on certain holidays, and celebrate their rural festivals. 
This custom had been handed down from father to son 
for several generations, until the oak had acquired a 
kind of sacred character. 

The “ old Lord Byron,” however, in whose eyes noth¬ 
ing was sacred, when he laid his desolating hand on the 
groves and forests of Newstead, doomed likewise this 
traditional tree to the axe. Fortunately the good people 
of Nottingham heard of the danger of their favorite oak, 
and hastened to ransom it from destruction. They after¬ 
wards made a present of it to the poet, when he came to 
the estate, and the Pilgrim Oak is likely to continue a 
rural gathering-place for many coming generations. 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


417 


From this magnificent and time-honored tree we con¬ 
tinued on our sylvan research, in quest of another oak, of 
more ancient date and less flourishing condition. A ride 
of two or three miles, the latter part across open wastes, 
once clothed with forest, now bare and cheerless, brought 
us to the tree in question. It was the Oak of Ravens- 
head, one of the last survivors of old Sherwood, and 
which had evidently once held a high head in the forest; 
it was now a mere wreck, crazed by time, and blasted by 
lightning, and standing alone on a naked waste, like a 
ruined column in a desert. 

“ The scenes are desert now, and bare, 

Where flourished once a forest fair, 

When these waste glens with copse were lined, 

And peopled witn the hart and hind. 

Yon lonely oak, would he could tell 
The changes of his parent dell, 

Since he, so gray and stubborn now, 

Waved in each breeze a sapling bough. 

Would he could tell how deep the shade 
A thousand mingled branches made. 

Here in my shade, methinks he’d say r 
The mighty stag at noontide lay, 

While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, 

Have bounded by through gay green-wood.” 

At no great distance from Ravensbead Oak is a small 
cave which goes by the name of Robin Hood’s Stable. 
It is in the breast of a hill, scooped out of brown 
freestone, with rude attempts at columns and arches. 

27 


418 


GRA TON MISCELLANY. 


Within are two niches, which served, it is said, as stalls 
for the bold outlaw’s horses. To this retreat he retired 
when hotly pursued by the law, for the place was a 
secret even from his band. The cave is overshadowed 
by an oak and alder, and is hardly discoverable even at 
the present day; but when the country was overrun with 
forest, it must have been completely concealed. 

There was an agreeable wildness and loneliness in a 
great part of our ride. Our devious road wound down, 
at one time, among rocky dells by wandering streams, 
and lonely pools, haunted by shy water-fowl. We passed 
through a skirt of woodland, of more modern planting, 
but considered a legitimate offspring of the ancient for¬ 
est, and commonly called Jock of Sherwood. In riding 
through these quiet, solitary scenes, the partridge and 
pheasant would now and then burst upon the wing, and 
the hare scud away before us. 

Another of these rambling rides in quest of popular 
antiquities was to a chain of rocky cliffs, called the Kirk- 
by Crags, which skirt the Robin Hood hills. Here, leav¬ 
ing my horse at the foot of the crags, I scaled their 
rugged sides, and seated myself in a niche of the rocks, 
called Robin Hood’s chair. It commands a wide pros¬ 
pect over the valley of Newstead, and here the bold out¬ 
law is said to have taken his seat, and kept a look-out 
upon the roads below, watching for merchants, and bish¬ 
ops, and other wealthy travellers, upon whom to pounce 
down, like an eagle from his eyrie. 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


419 


Descending from the cliffs and remounting my horse, a 
ride of a mile or two further along a narrow “robber 
path,” as it was called, which wound up into the hills 
between perpendicular rocks, led to an artificial cavern 
cut in the face of a cliff, with a door and window wrought 
through the living stone. This bears the name of Friar 
Tuck’s cell, or hermitage, where, according to tradition, 
that jovial anchorite used to make good cheer and bois¬ 
terous revel with his freebooting comrades. 

Such were some of the vestiges of old Sherwood and 
its renowned “yeomandrie,” which I visited in the neigh¬ 
borhood of Newstead. The worthy clergyman who offi¬ 
ciated as chaplain at the Abbey, seeing my zeal in the 
cause, informed me of a considerable tract of the ancient 
forest, still in existence about ten miles distant. There 
were many fine old oaks in it, he said, that had stood for 
centuries, but were now shattered and “stag-headed,” 
that is to say, their upper branches were bare, and 
blasted, and straggling out like the antlers of a deer. 
Their trunks, too, were hollow, and full of crows and 
jackdaws, who made them their nestling-places. He 
occasionally rode over to the forest in the long summer 
evenings, and pleased himself with loitering in the twi¬ 
light about the green alleys and under the venerable 
trees. 

The description given by the chaplain made me anx¬ 
ious to visit this remnant of old Sherwood, and he kindly 
offered to be my guide and companion. We accordingly 


420 


GRA YON MISCELLANY. 


sallied forth one morning, on horseback, on this sylvan 
expedition. Onr ride took us through a part of the 
country where King John had once held a hunting-seat, 
the ruins of which are still to be seen. At that time the 
whole neighborhood was an open royal forest, or Frank 
chase, as it was termed; for King John was an enemy 
to parks and warrens, and other enclosures, by which 
game was fenced in for the private benefit and recreation 
of the nobles and the clergy. 

Here, on the brow of a gentle hill, commanding an 
extensive prospect of what had once been forest, stood 
another of those monumental trees, which, to my mind, 
gave a peculiar interest to this neighborhood. It was 
the Parliament Oak, so called in memory of an assem¬ 
blage of the kind held by King John beneath its shade. 
The lapse of upwards of six centuries had reduced this 
once mighty tree to a mere crumbling fragment, yet, like 
a gigantic torso in ancient statuary, the grandeur of the 
mutilated trunk gave evidence of what it had been in the 
days of its glory. In contemplating its mouldering re¬ 
mains, the fancy busied itself in calling up the scene that 
must have been presented beneath its shade, when this 
sunny hill swarmed with the pageantry of a warlike and 
hunting court; when silken pavilions and warrior-tents 
decked its crest, and royal standards, and baronial ban¬ 
ners, and knightly pennons rolled out to the breeze; 
when prelates and courtiers, and steel-clad chivalry 
thronged round the person of the monarch, while at a 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


421 


distance loitered the foresters in green, and all the 
rural and hunting train that waited upon his sylvan 
sports. 

“A thousand vassals mustered round 
With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound; 

And through the brake the rangers stalk, 

And falc’ners hold the ready hawk; 

And foresters in green-wood trim 
Lead in the leash the greyhound grim.” 

Such was the phantasmagoria that presented itself for 
a moment to my imagination, peopling the silent place 
before me with empty shadows of the past. The reverie 
however was transient; king, courtier, and steel-clad 
warrior, and forester in green, with horn, and hawk, and 
hound, all faded again into oblivion, and I awoke to all 
that remained of this once stirring scene of human pomp 
and power—a mouldering oak, and a tradition. 

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of I ” 

A ride of a few miles further brought us at length 
among the venerable and classic shades of Sherwood. 
Here I was delighted to find myself in a genuine wild 
wood, of primitive and natural growth, so rarely to be 
met with in this thickly peopled and highly cultivated 
country. It reminded me of the aboriginal forests of my 
native land. I rode through natural alleys and green¬ 
wood groves, carpeted with grass and shaded by lofty 
and beautiful birches. What most interested me, how¬ 
ever, was to behold around me the mighty trunks of 


422 


CRA TON MISCELLANY. 


veteran oaks, old monumental trees, the patriarchs of 
Sherwood Forest. They were shattered, hollow, and 
moss-grown, it is true, and their “ leafy honors ” were 
nearly departed; but like mouldering towers they were 
noble and picturesque in their decay, and gave evidence, 
even in their ruins, of their ancient grandeur. 

As I gazed about me upon these vestiges of once 
“Merrie Sherwood,” the picturings of my boyish fancy 
began to rise in my mind, and Robin Hood and his men 
to stand before me. 

“ He clothed himself in scarlet then, 

His men were all in green; 

A finer show throughout the world 
In no place could be seen. 

“ Good lord! it was a gallant sight 
To see them all in a row; 

With every man a good broad-sword, 

And eke a good yew bow.” 

The horn of Robin Hood again seemed to resound 
through the forest. I saw this sylvan chivalry, half 
huntsmen, half freebooters, trooping across the distant 
glades, or feasting and revelling beneath the trees ; I was 
going on to embody in this way all the ballad scenes that 
had delighted me when a boy, when the distant sound of 
a wood-cutter’s axe roused me from my day-dream. 

The boding apprehensions which it awakened were too 
soon verified. I had not ridden much further, when I 
came to an open space where the work of destruction was 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


423 


going on. Around me lay the prostrate trunks of ven¬ 
erable oaks, once the towering and magnificent lords of 
the forest, and a number of wood-cutters were hacking and 
hewing at another gigantic tree, just tottering to its fall. 

Alas ! for old Sherwood Forest: it had fallen into the 
possession of a noble agriculturist; a modern utilitarian, 
who had no feeling for poetry or forest scenery. In a 
little while and this glorious woodland will be laid low; 
its green glades be turned into sheep-walks; its legen¬ 
dary bowers supplanted by turnip-fields, and “ Merrie 
Sherwood ” will exist but in ballad and tradition. 

“O for the poetical superstitions,” thought I, “of the 
olden time! that shed a sanctity over every grove; that 
gave to each tree its tutelar genius or nymph, and 
threatened disaster to all who should molest the hama¬ 
dryads in their leafy abodes. Alas! for the sordid pro¬ 
pensities of modern days, when everything is coined into 
gold, and this once holiday planet of ours is turned into 
a mere ‘working-day world.’” 

My cobweb fancies put to flight, and my feelings cut 
of tune, I left the forest in a far different mood from that 
in which I had entered it, and rode silently along until, 
on reaching the summit of a gentle eminence, the chime 
of evening bells came on the breeze across the heath 
from a distant village. 

I paused to listen. 

“ They are merely the evening bells of Mansfield,” said 
my companion. 


424 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


“ Of Mansfield ! ” Here was another of the legendary 
names of this storied neighborhood, that called up early 
and pleasant associations. The famous old ballad of 
the King and the Miller of Mansfield came at once to 
mind, and the chime of the bells put me again in good 
humor. 

A little further on, and we were again on the traces of 
Robin Hood. Here was Fountain Dale, where he had 
his encounter with that stalwart shaveling Friar Tuck, 
who was a kind of saint militant, alternately wearing the 
casque and the cowl:— 

“ The curtal fryar kept Fountain dale 
Seven long years and more, 

There was neither lord, knight or earl 
Could make him yield before.” 

The moat is still shown which is said to have sur¬ 
rounded the strong-hold of this jovial and fighting friar; 
and the place where he and Robin Hood had their 
sturdy trial of strength and prowess, in the memorable 
conflict which lasted 

“ From ten o’clock that very day 
Until four in the afternoon,” 

and ended in the treaty of fellowship. As to the hardy 
feats, both of sword and trencher, performed by this 
“ curtal fryar,” behold are they not recorded at length 
in the ancient ballads, and in the magic pages of “ Ivan- 
hoe”? 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


425 


The evening was fast coming on, and the twilight 
thickening, as we rode through these haunts famous in 
outlaw story. A melancholy seemed to gather over the 
landscape as we proceeded, for our course lay by sha¬ 
dowy woods, and across naked heaths, and along lonely 
roads, marked by some of those sinister names by which 
the country people in England are apt to make dreary 
places still more dreary. The horrors of “ Thieves’ 
Wood,” and the “Murderers’ Stone,” and “the Hag 
Nook,” had all to be encountered in the gathering gloom 
of evening, and threatened to beset our path with more 
than mortal peril. Happily, however, we passed these 
ominous places unharmed, and arrived in safety at the 
portal of Newstead Abbey, highly satisfied with our 
green-wood foray. 


THE ROOK CELL. 



|N tlie course of my sojourn at the Abbey I 
changed my quarters from the magnificent old 
state apartment haunted by Sir John Byron 
the Little, to another in a remote corner of the ancient 
edifice, immediately adjoining the ruined chapel. It 
possessed still more interest in my eyes, from having 
been the sleeping apartment of Lord Byron during his 
residence at the Abbey. The furniture remained the 
same. Here was the bed in which he slept, and which 
he had brought with him from college; its gilded posts, 
surmounted by coronets, giving evidence of his aristo- 
cratical feelings. Here was likewise his college sofa: 
and about the walls were the portraits of his favorite 
butler, old Joe Murray, of his fancy acquaintance, Jack- 
son the pugilist, together with pictures of Harrow School 
and the College at Cambridge, at which he was edu¬ 
cated. 

The bedchamber goes by the name of the Rook Cell, 
from its vicinity to the Rookery, which, since time im¬ 
memorial, has maintained possession of a solemn grove 
adjacent to the chapel. This venerable community a£- 

426 




NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


427 


forded me much food for speculation during my resi¬ 
dence in this apartment. In the morning I used to hear 
them gradually waking and seeming to call each other 
up. After a time, the whole fraternity would be in a 
flutter; some balancing and swinging on the tree-tops, 
others perched on the pinnacle of the Abbey church, or 
wheeling and hovering about in the air, and the ruined 
walls would reverberate with their incessant cawings. 
In this way they would linger about the rookery and its 
vicinity for the early part of the morning, when, having 
apparently mustered all their forces, called over the roll, 
and determined upon their line of march, they one and 
all would sail off in a long straggling flight to maraud the 
distant fields. They would forage the country for miles, 
and remain absent all day, excepting now and then a 
scout would come home, as if to see that all was well. 
Towards night the whole host might be seen, like a dark 
cloud in the distance, winging their way homeward. 
They came, as it were, with whoop and halloo, wheeling 
high in the air above the Abbey, making various evolu¬ 
tions before they alighted, and then keeping up an inces¬ 
sant cawing in the tree-tops, until they gradually fell 
asleep. 

It is remarked at the Abbey, that the rooks, though 
they sally forth on forays throughout the week, yet keep 
about the venerable edifice on Sundays, as if they had 
inherited a reverence for the day, from their ancient con¬ 
freres , the monks. Indeed, a believer in the metempsy- 


428 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


chosis might easily imagine these Gothic-looking birds 
to be the embodied souls of the ancient friars still hov¬ 
ering about their sanctified abode. 

I dislike to disturb any point of popular and poetic 
faith, and was loath, therefore, to question the authen¬ 
ticity of this mysterious reverence for the Sabbath, on 
the part of the Newstead rooks; but certainly in the 
course of my sojourn in the Book Cell I detected them 
in a flagrant outbreak and foray on a bright Sunday 
morning. 

Beside the occasional clamor of the rookery, this re¬ 
mote apartment was often greeted with sounds of a 
different kind, from the neighboring ruins. The great 
lancet-window in front of the chapel adjoins the very 
wall of the chamber; and the mysterious sounds from it 
at night have been well described by Lord Byron 


“ Now loud, now frantic, 

The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings 
The owl his anthem, when the silent quire 
Lie with their hallelujahs quenched like fire. 

“ But on the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of heaven. 
There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
Is musical—a dying accent driven 
Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again* 
Some deem it but the distant echo given 
Back to the night-wind by the waterfall, 

And harmonized by the old choral wall. 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


429 


u Others, that some original shape or form, 

Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 
To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm. 

Sad, but serene, it sweeps o’er tree or tower ; 

The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 
The fact:—I’ve heard it,—once perhaps too much.” 

Never was a traveller in quest of the romantic in 
greater luck. I had, in sooth, got lodged in another 
haunted apartment of the Abbey; for in this chamber 
Lord Byron declared he had more than once been ha¬ 
rassed at midnight by a mysterious visitor. A black 
shapeless form would sit cowering upon his bed, and 
after gazing at him for a time with glaring eyes, would 
roll off and disappear. The same uncouth apparition is 
said to have disturbed the slumbers of a newly married 
couple that once passed their honey-moon in this apart¬ 
ment. 

I would observe that the access to the Rook Cell is by 
a spiral stone staircase leading up into it as into a tur¬ 
ret, from the long shadowy corridor over the cloisters, 
one of the midnight walks of the goblin friar. Indeed, 
to the fancies engendered in his brain in this remote and 
lonely apartment, incorporated with the floating super¬ 
stitions of the Abbey, we are no doubt indebted for 
the spectral scene in “Don Juan.” 

“ Then as the night was clear, though cold, he threw 
His chamber-door wide open—and went forth 
Into a gallery, of sombre hue, 

Long furnish’d with old pictures of great worth, 


430 


CRA YON MISCELLANY. 


Of knights and dames, heroic and chaste too, 
As doubtless should be people of high birth. 


** No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique house. 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 

A supernatural agent—or a mouse, 

Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
Most people, as it plays along the arras. 

“ It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, arrayed 

In cowl, and beads, and dusky garb, appeared 
Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade; 

With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard; 

His garments only a slight murmur made; 

He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 

But slowly; and as he passed Juan by 
Glared, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

“ Juan was petrified; he had heard a hint 
Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 

But thought, like most men, there was nothing in’t 
Beyond the rumor which such spots unfold, 

Coin’d from surviving superstition’s mint, 

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 

But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 

And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? 

* Once, twice, thrice pass’d, repass’d—the thing of air, 
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t’other place ; 

And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 

Yet could not speak or move, but, on its base 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


431 


As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 

He tax’d his tongue for words, which were not granted: 

To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

“ The third time, after a still longer pause, 

The shadow pass’d away—but where ? the hall 
Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural: 

Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
Of physics, bodies, whether short or tall, 

Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 
Through which the spectre seem’d to evaporate. 

“ He stood,—how long he knew not, but it seem’d 
An age,—expectant, powerless, with his eyes 
Strain’d on the spot where first the figure gleam’d. 

Then by degrees, recall’d his energies, 

And would have pass’d the whole off as a dream, 

But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise. 

Waking already, and return’d at length 
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength.” 

As I have already observed, it is difficult to determine 
whether Lord Byron was really subject to the super¬ 
stitious fancies which have been imputed to him, or 
whether he merely amused himself by giving currency to 
them among his domestics and dependants. He certainly 
never scrupled to express a belief in supernatural visita¬ 
tions, both verbally and in his correspondence. If such 
were his foible, the Rook Cell was an admirable place 
to engender these delusions. As I have lain awake at 


432 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


night, I have heard all kinds of mysterious and sighing 
sounds from the neighboring ruin. Distant footsteps, 
too, and the closing of doors in remote parts of the Ab¬ 
bey, would send hollow reverberations and echoes along 
the corridor and up the spiral staircase. Once, in fact, T 
was roused by a strange sound at the very door of my 
chamber. I threw it open, and a form “ black and shape¬ 
less with glaring eyes” stood before me. It proved, 
however, neither ghost nor goblin, but my friend Boat¬ 
swain, the great Newfoundland dog, who had conceived a 
companionable liking for me, and occasionally sought me 
in my apartment. To the hauntings of even such a vis¬ 
itant as honest Boatswain may we attribute some of til© 
marvellous stories about the Goblin Friar. 


THE LITTLE WHITE LADY. 


N the course of a morning’s ride with Colonel 
Wildman, about the Abbey lands, we found our¬ 
selves in one of the prettiest little wild-woods 
imaginable. The road to it had led us among rocky 
ravines overhung with thickets, and now wound through 
birchen dingles and among beautiful groves and clumps 
of elms and beeches. A limpid rill of sparkling water, 
winding and doubling in perplexed mazes, crossed our 
path repeatedly, so as to give the wood the appearance 
of being watered by numerous rivulets. The solitary 
and romantic look of this piece of woodland, and the fre¬ 
quent recurrence of its mazy stream, put him in mind, 
Colonel Wildman said, of the little German fairy tale of 
Undine, in which is recorded the adventures of a knight 
who had married a water-nymph. As he rode with his 
bride through her native woods, every stream claimed 
her as a relative; one was a brother, another an uncle, 
another a cousin. 

We rode on, amusing ourselves with applying this 
fanciful tale to the charming scenery around us, until we 
came to a lowly gray-stone farm-house, of ancient date, 
28 433 












434 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


situated in a solitary glen, on the margin of the brook, 
and overshadowed by venerable trees. It went by the 
name, as I was told, of the Weir Mill farm-house. With 
this rustic mansion was connected a little tale of real 
life, some circumstances of which were related to me on 
the spot, and others I collected in the course of my so¬ 
journ at the Abbey. 

Not long after Colonel Wildman had purchased the 
estate of Newstead, he made it a visit for the purpose of 
planning repairs and alterations. As he was rambling 
one evening, about dusk, in company with his architect, 
through this little piece of woodland, he was struck with 
its peculiar characteristics, and then, for the first time, 
compared it to the haunted wood of Undine. While he 
was making the remark, a small female figure, in white, 
flitted by without speaking a word, or indeed appearing 
to notice them. Her step was scarcely heard as she 
passed, and her form was indistinct in the twilight. 

“ What a figure for a fairy or sprite ! ” exclaimed Colo¬ 
nel Wildman. “ How much a poet or a romance writer 
would make of such an apparition, at such a time and in 
such a place ! ” 

He began to congratulate himself upon having some elfin 
inhabitant for his haunted wood, when, on proceeding a 
few paces, he found a white frill lying in the path, which 
had evidently fallen from the figure that had just passed. 

“ Well,” said he, “ after all, this is neither sprite no! 
fairy, but a being of flesh and blood and muslin.” 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


435 


Continuing on, he came to where the road passed by 
an old mill in front of the Abbey. The people of the 
mill were at the door. He paused and inquired whether 
any visitor had been at the Abbey, but was answered in 
the negative. 

“ Has nobody passed by here ? ” 

“ No one, sir.” 

“ That’s strange ! Surely I met a female in white, who 
must have passed along this path.” 

“ Oh, sir, you mean the Little White Lady;—oh, yes, 
she passed by here not long since.” 

“ The Little White Lady! And pray who is the Little 
White Lady?” 

“ Why, sir, that nobody knows; she lives in the Weir 
Mill farm-house, down in the skirts of the wood. She 
comes to the Abbey every morning, keeps about it all 
day, and goes away at night. She speaks to nobody, and 
we are rather shy of her, for we don’t know what to make 
of her.” 

Colonel Wildman now concluded that it was some 
artist or amateur employed in making sketches of the 
Abbey, and thought no more about the matter. He 
went to London, and was absent for some time. In the 
interim, his sister, who was newly married, came with 
her husband to pass the honey-moon at the Abbey. The 
Little White Lady still resided in the Weir Mill farm¬ 
house, on the border of the haunted wood, and continued 
her visits daily to the Abbey. Her dress was always 


436 


CRAYON MISCELLANY, 


the same: a white gown with a little black spencer or 
bodice, and a white hat with a short veil that screened 
the upper part of her countenance. Her habits were 
shy, lonely, and silent; she spoke to no one, and sought 
no companionship, excepting with the Newfoundland dog, 
that had belonged to Lord Byron. His friendship she 
secured by caressing him and occasionally bringing him 
food, and he became the companion of her solitary 
walks. She avoided all strangers, and wandered about 
the retired parts of the garden; sometimes sitting for 
hours by the tree on which Lord Byron had carved his 
name, or at the foot of the monument which he had 
erected among the ruins of the chapel. Sometimes she 
read, sometimes she wrote with a pencil on a small 3late 
which she carried with her, but much of her time was 
passed in a kind of reverie. 

The people about the place gradually became accus¬ 
tomed to her, and suffered her to wander about un¬ 
molested ; their distrust of her subsided on discovering 
that most of her peculiar and lonely habits arose from 
the misfortune of being deaf and dumb. Still she was 
regarded with some degree of shyness, for it was the 
common opinion that she was not exactly in her right 
mind. 

Colonel Wildman’s sister was informed of all these 
circumstances by the servants of the Abbey, among 
whom the Little White Lady was a theme of frequent 
discussion. The Abbey and its monastic environs being 


NEW STEAD ABBEY. 


437 


haunted ground, it was natural that a mysterious vis¬ 
itant of the kind, and one supposed to be under the in¬ 
fluence of mental hallucination, should inspire awe in a 
person unaccustomed to the place. As Colonel Wild- 
man’s sister was one day walking along a broad terrace 
of the garden, she suddenly beheld the Little White 
Lady coming towards her, and, in the surprise and agita¬ 
tion of the moment, turned and ran into the house. 

Day after day now elapsed, and nothing more was seen 
of this singular personage. Colonel Wildman at length 
arrived at the Abbey, and his sister mentioned to him 
her rencounter and fright in the garden. It brought to 
mind his own adventure with the Little White Lady in 
the wood of Undine, and he was surprised to find that 
she still continued her mysterious wanderings about the 
Abbey. The mystery was soon explained. Immediately 
after his arrival he received a letter written in the most 
minute and delicate female hand, and in elegant and even 
eloquent language. It was from the Little White Lady. 
She had noticed and been shocked by the abrupt retreat 
of Colonel Wildman’s sister on seeing her in the garden- 
walk, and expressed her unhappiness at being an object 
of alarm to any of his family. She explained the motives 
of her frequent and long visits to the Abbey, which 
proved to be a singularly enthusiastic idolatry of the 
genius of Lord Byron, and a solitary and passionate de¬ 
light in haunting the scenes he had once inhabited. She 
hinted at the infirmities which cut her off from all social 


438 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


communion with her fellow-beings, and at her situation 
in life as desolate and bereaved; and concluded by hop¬ 
ing that he would not deprive her of her only comfort, 
the permission of visiting the Abbey occasionally, and 
lingering about the walks and -gardens. 

Colonel Wildman now made further inquiries concern¬ 
ing her, and found that she was a great favorite with the 
people of the farm-house where she boarded, from the 
gentleness, quietude, and innocence of her manners. 
When at home, she passed the greater part of her time 
in a small sitting-room, reading and writing. 

Colonel Wildman immediately called on her at the 
farm-house. She received him with some agitation and 
embarrassment, but his frankness and urbanity soon put 
her at her ease. She was past the bloom of youth, a pale, 
nervous little being, and apparently deficient in most of 
her physical organs, for in addition to being deaf and 
dumb, she saw but imperfectly. They carried on a com¬ 
munication by means of a small slate, which she drew 
out of her reticule, and on which they wrote their ques¬ 
tions and replies. In writing or reading she always ap¬ 
proached her eyes close to the written characters. 

This defective organization was accompanied by a mor¬ 
bid sensibility almost amounting to disease. She had 
not been born deaf and dumb, but had lost her hearing 
in a fit of sickness, and with it the power of distinct ar¬ 
ticulation. Her life had evidently been checkered and 
unhappy; she was apparently without family or friend, 


NEW STEAD ABBEY. 


439 


a lonely, desolate being, cut off from society by her in¬ 
firmities. 

“ I am always amongst strangers,” said she, “ as much 
so in my native country as I could be in the remotest 
parts of the world. By all I am considered as a stranger 
and an alien; no one will acknowledge any connection 
with me. I seem not to belong to the human species.” 

Such were the circumstances that Colonel Wildman 
was able to draw forth in the course of his conversation, 
and they strongly interested him in # favor of this poor 
enthusiast. He was too devout an admirer of Lord 
Byron himself not to sympathize in this extraordinary 
zeal of one of his votaries, and he entreated her to renew 
her visits to the Abbey, assuring her that the edifice and 
its grounds should always be open to her. 

The Little White Lady now resumed her daily walks 
in the Monks’ Garden, and her occasional seat at the 
foot of the monument; she was shy and diffident, how¬ 
ever, and evidently fearful of intruding. If any persons 
were walking in the garden, she would avoid them, and 
seek the most remote parts; and was seen like a sprite, 
only by gleams and glimpses, as she glided among the 
groves and thickets. Many of her feelings and fancies, 
during these lonely rambles, were embodied in verse, 
noted down on her tablet, and transferred to paper in the 
evening on her return to the farm-house. Some of these 
verses now lie before me, written with considerable har¬ 
mony of versification, but chiefly curious as being illustra- 


440 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


tive of that singular and enthusiastic idolatry with which 
she almost worshipped the genius of Byron, or rathe" 
the romantic image of him formed by her imagination. 

Two or three extracts may not be unacceptable. The 
following are from a long rhapsody addressed to Lord 
Byron:— 


“ By what dread charm thou rulest the mind 
It is not given for us to know; 

We glow with feelings undefined, 

Nor can explain from whence they flow. 

“Not that fond love which passion breathe* 
And youthful hearts inflame ; 

The soul a nobler homage gives, 

And bows to thy great name. 

“Oft have we own’d the muses’ skill, 

And proved the power of song, 

But sweetest notes ne’er woke the thrill 
That solely to thy verse belong. 

“This—but far more, for thee we prove, 
Something that bears a holier name 
Than the pure dream of early love, 

Or friendship’s nobler flame. 

“Something divine—Oh! what it is 
Thy muse alone can tell, 

So sweet, but so profound the bliss 
We dread to break the spell.’* 


This singular and romantic infatuation, for such it 
might truly be called, was entirely spiritual and ideal, 


NEW STEAD ABBEY . 


441 


for, as she herself declares in another of her rhapsodies, 
she had never beheld Lord Byron; he was, to her, a 
mere phantom of the brain. 

“ I ne’er have drunk thy glance,—thy form 
My earthly eye has never seen, 

Though oft when fancy’s visions warm, 

It greets me in some blissful dream : 

Greets me, as greets the sainted seer 
Some radiant visitant from high, 

When heaven’s own strains break on his ear. 

And wrap his soul in ecstasy.” 

Her poetical wanderings and musings were not con¬ 
fined to the Abbey grounds, but extended to all parts of 
the neighborhood connected with the memory of Lord 
Byron, and among the rest to the groves and gardens of 
Annesley Hall, the seat of his early passion for Miss Cha- 
worth. One of her poetical effusions mentions her hav¬ 
ing seen from Howet’s Hill in Annesley Park, a “sylph¬ 
like form,” in a car drawn by milk-white horses, passing 
by the foot of the hill, who proved to be the “ favorite 
child ” seen by Lord Byron in his memorable interview 
with Miss Chaworth after her marriage. That favorite 
child was now a blooming girl approaching to woman¬ 
hood, and seems to have understood something of the 
character and story of this singular visitant, and to have 
treated her with gentle sympathy. The Little White 
Lady expresses in touching terms, in a note to her 
verses, her sense of this gentle courtesy. “ The benev- 


442 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


olent condescension,” says she, “ of that amiable and 
interesting young lady, to the unfortunate writer of these 
simple lines, will remain engraved upon a grateful mem¬ 
ory, till the vital spark that now animates a heart that 
too sensibly feels and too seldom experiences such kind¬ 
ness, is forever extinct.” 

In the meantime, Colonel Wildman, in occasional in¬ 
terviews, had obtained further particulars of the story 
of the stranger, and found that poverty was added to the 
other evils of her forlorn and isolated state. Her name 
was Sophia Hyatt. She was the daughter of a country 
bookseller, but both her parents had died several years 
before. At their death, her sole dependence was upon 
her brother, who allowed her a small annuity on her 
share of the property left by their father, and which re¬ 
mained in his hands. Her brother, who was a captain 
of a merchant vessel, removed with his family to Amer¬ 
ica, leaving her almost alone in the world, for she had 
no other relative in England but a cousin, of whom she 
knew almost nothing. She received her annuity regu¬ 
larly for a time, but unfortunately her brother died in 
the West Indies, leaving his affairs in confusion, and his 
estate overhung by several commercial claims, which 
threatened to swallow up the whole. Under these dis¬ 
astrous circumstances, her annuity suddenly ceased; she 
had in vain tried to obtain a renewal of it from the 
widow, or even an account of the state of her brother’s 
affairs. Her letters for three years past had remained 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


443 


unanswered, and she would have been exposed to the 
horrors of the most abject want, but for a pittance quar¬ 
terly doled out to her by her cousin in England. 

Colonel Wildman entered with characteristic benevo¬ 
lence into the story of her troubles. He saw that she 
was a helpless, unprotected being, unable, from her infir¬ 
mities and her ignorance of the world, to prosecute her 
just claims. He obtained from her the address of her re¬ 
lations in America, and of the commercial connection of 
her brother; promised, through the medium of his own 
agents in Liverpool, to institute an inquiry into the situ¬ 
ation of her brother’s affairs, and to forward any letters 
she might write, so as to insure their reaching their 
place of destination. 

Inspired with some faint hopes, the Little White Lady 
continued her wanderings about the Abbey and its neigh¬ 
borhood. The delicacy and timidity of her deportment 
increased the interest already felt for her by Mrs. Wild¬ 
man. That lady, with her wonted kindness, sought to 
make acquaintance with her, and inspire her with confi¬ 
dence. She invited her into the Abbey; treated her 
with the most delicate attention, and, seeing that she 
had a great turn for reading, offered her the loan of 
any books in her possession. She borrowed a few, par¬ 
ticularly the works of Sir Walter Scott, but soon re¬ 
turned them; the writings of Lord Byron seemed to form 
the only study in which she delighted, and when not oc¬ 
cupied in reading those, her time was passed in passion- 


444 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


ate meditations on his genius. Her enthusiasm spread 
an ideal world around her, in which she moved and ex¬ 
isted as in a dream, forgetful at times of the real 
miseries which beset her in her mortal state. 

One of her rhapsodies is, however, of a very melan¬ 
choly cast; anticipating her own death, which her fragile 
frame and growing infirmities rendered but too probable. 
It is headed by the following paragraph:— 

“ Written beneath the tree on Crowholt Hill, where it 
is my wish to be interred (if I should die in Newstead).” 

I subjoin a few of the stanzas : they are addressed to 
Lord Byron. 

“ Thou, while thou stand’st beneath this tree, 

While by thy foot this earth is press’d, 

Think, here the wanderer’s ashes be— 

And wilt thou say, sweet be thy restl 

“ ’Twould add even to a seraph’s bliss, 

Whose sacred charge thou then may be. 

To guide—to guard—yes, Byron! yes, 

That glory is reserved for me. 

“ If woes below may plead above 

A frail heart’s errors, mine forgiven, 

To that ‘ high world ’ I soar, where ‘ love 
Surviving ’ forms the bliss of Heaven. 

“ 0 wheresoe’er, in realms above, 

Assign’d my spirit’s new abode, 

’Twill watch thee with a seraph’s love. 

Till thou too soar’st to meet thy God. 


NEW8TEAD ABBEY. 


445 


“ And here, beneath this lonely tree— 

Beneath the earth thy feet have press’d. 

My dust shall sleep—once dear to thee 
These scenes—here may the wanderer rest!” 

In the midst of her reveries and rhapsodies, tidings 
reached Newstead of the untimely death of Lord Byron. 
How they were received by this humble but passionate 
devotee I could not ascertain; her life was too obscure 
and lonely to furnish much personal anecdote, but among 
her poetical effusions are several written in a broken and 
irregular manner and evidently under great agitation. 

The following sonnet is the most coherent and most 
descriptive of her peculiar state of mind :— 

“ Well, thou art gone—but what wert thou to me ? 

I never saw thee—never heard thy voice, 

Yet my soul seemed to claim affiance with thee. 

The Roman bard has sung of fields Elysian, 

Where the soul sojourns ere she visits earth ; 

Sure it was there my spirit knew thee, Byron ! 

Thine image haunteth me like a past vision ; 

It hath enshrined itself in my heart’s core ; 

’Tis my soul’s soul—it fills the whole creation. 

For I do live but in that world ideal 
Which the muse peopleth with her bright fancies, 

And of that world thou art a monarch real, 

Nor ever earthly sceptre ruled a kingdom, 

With sway so potent as thy lyre, the mind’s dominion.’* 

Taking all tbe circumstances here adduced into con¬ 
sideration, it is evident that this strong excitement and 


446 


GRA TON MISCELLANY. 


exclusive occupation of the mind upon one subject, oper¬ 
ating upon a system in a high state of morbid irrita¬ 
bility, was in danger of producing that species of mental 
derangement called monomania. The poor little being 
was aware, herself, of the dangers of her case, and 
alluded to it in the following passage of a letter to Col¬ 
onel Wildman, which presents one of the most lamen¬ 
table pictures of anticipated evil ever conjured up by the 
human mind. 

“ I have long,” writes she, “ too sensibly felt the decay 
of my mental faculties, which I consider as the certain 
indication of that dreaded calamity which I anticipate 
with such terror. A strange idea has long haunted my 
mind, that Swift’s dreadful fate will be mine. It is not 
ordinary insanity I so much apprehend, but something 
worse—absolute idiotism! 

“ 0 sir! think what I must suffer from such an idea, 
without an earthly friend to look up to for protection in 
such a wretched state—exposed to the indecent insults 
which such spectacles always excite. But I dare not 
dwell upon the thought; it would facilitate the event I 
so much dread and contemplate with horror. Yet I can¬ 
not help thinking from people’s behavior to me at times, 
and from after-reflections upon my conduct, that symp¬ 
toms of the disease are already apparent.” 

Five months passed away, but the letters written by 
her, and forwarded by Colonel Wildman to America, 
relative to her brother’s affairs, remained unanswered; 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


447 


the inquiries instituted by the Colonel had as yet proved 
equally fruitless. A deeper gloom and despondency now 
seemed to gather upon her mind. She began to talk of 
leaving Newstead, and repairing to London, in the vague 
hope of obtaining relief or redress by instituting some 
legal process to ascertain and enforce the will of her 
deceased brother. Weeks elapsed, however, before she 
could summon up sufficient resolution to tear herself 
away from the scene of poetical fascination. The follow¬ 
ing simple stanzas, selected from a number written about 
the time, express in humble rhymes the melancholy that 
preyed upon her spirits:— 

“Farewell to thee, Newstead, thy time-riven towers 
Shall meet the fond gaze of the pilgrim no more ; 

No more may she roam through thy walks and thy bowers* 

Nor muse in thy cloisters at eve’s pensive hour. 

“ Oh how shall I leave you, ye hills and ye dales, 

When lost in sad musing, though sad not unblest 
A lone pilgrim I stray—Ah ! in these lonely vales, 

I hoped, vainly hoped, that the pilgrim might rest. 

“ Yet rest is far distant—in the dark vale of death 
Alone shall I find it, an outcast forlorn— 

But hence vain complaints, though by fortune bereft 
Of all that could solace in life’s early morn. 

“ Is not man from his birth doomed a pilgrim to roam 

O’er the world’s dreary wilds, whence by fortune’s rude gust, 

In his path, if some flow’ret of joy chanced to bloom, 

It is tom and its foliage laid low in the dust.” 


448 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


At length she fixed upon a day for her departure. On 
the day previous, she paid a farewell visit to the Abbey; 
wandering over every part of the grounds and garden; 
pausing and lingering at every place particularly asso¬ 
ciated with the recollection of Lord Byron; and passing 
a long time seated at the foot of the monument, which 
she used to call “her altar.” Seeking Mrs. Wildman, 
she placed in her hands a sealed packet, with an earnest 
request that she would not open it until after her depart¬ 
ure from the neighborhood. This done, she took an 
affectionate leave of her, and with many bitter tears bade 
farewell to the Abbey. 

On retiring to her room that evening, Mrs. Wildman 
could not refrain from inspecting the legacy of this sin¬ 
gular being. On opening the packet, she found a num¬ 
ber of fugitive poems, written in a most delicate and 
minute hand, and evidently the fruits of her reveries and 
meditations during her lonely rambles; from these the 
foregoing extracts have been made. These were accom¬ 
panied by a voluminous letter, written with the pathos 
and eloquence of genuine feeling, and depicting her pecu¬ 
liar situation and singular state of mind in dark but 
painful colors. 

“ The last time,” says she, “ that I had the pleasure of 
seeing you, in the garden, you asked me why I leave 
Newstead; when I told you my circumstances obliged 
me, the expression of concern which I fancied I observed 
in your look and manner would have encouraged me to 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


449 


have been explicit at the time, but from my inability of 
expressing myself verbally.” 

She then goes on to detail precisely her pecuniary cir¬ 
cumstances, by which it appears that her whole depend¬ 
ence for subsistence was on an allowance of thirteen 
pounds a year from her cousin, who bestowed it through 
a feeling of pride, lest his relative should come upon the 
parish. During two years this pittance had been aug¬ 
mented from other sources, to twenty-three pounds, but 
the last year it had shrunk within its original bounds, 
and was yielded so grudgingly, that she could not feel 
sure of its continuance from one quarter to another. 
More than once it had been withheld on slight pretences, 
and she was in constant dread lest it should be entirely 
withdrawn. 

“It is with extreme reluctance,” observes she, “that I 
have so far exposed my unfortunate situation; but I 
thought you expected to know something more of it, and 
I feared that Colonel Wildman, deceived by appearances, 
might think that I am in no immediate want, and that 
the delay of a few weeks, or months, respecting the in¬ 
quiry can be of no material consequence. It is absolutely 
necessary to the success of the business that Colonel 
Wildman should know the exact state of my circum¬ 
stances without reserve, that he may be enabled to make 
a correct representation of them to any gentlemen whom 
he intends to interest, who, I presume, if they are not 
of America themselves, have some connections there, 
29 


450 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


through whom my friends may be convinced of the 
reality of my distress, if they pretend to doubt it, as I 
suppose they do: but to be more explicit is impossible; 
it would be too humiliating to particularize the circum¬ 
stances of the embarrassment in which I am unhappily 
involved—my utter destitution. To disclose all, might, 
too, be liable to an inference which I hope I am not so 
void of delicacy, of natural pride, as to endure the 
thought of. Pardon me, madam, for thus giving trouble 
where I have no right to do—compelled to throw myself 
upon Colonel Wildman’s humanity, to entreat his earnest 
exertions in my behalf, for it is now my only resource. 
Yet do not too much despise me for thus submitting to 
imperious necessity,—it is not love of life, believe me it 
is not, nor anxiety for its preservation. I cannot say, 
‘There are things that make the world dear to me,’—for 
in the world there is not an object to make me wish to 
linger here another hour, could I find that rest and peace 
in the grave which I have never found on earth, and I 
fear will be denied me there.” 

Another part of her letter develops more completely 
the dark despondency hinted at in the conclusion of the 
foregoing extract—and presents a lamentable instance 
of a mind diseased, which sought in vain, amidst sor¬ 
row and calamity, the sweet consolations of religious 
faith. 

“ That my existence has hitherto been prolonged,” 
says she, “often beyond what I have thought to have 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


451 


been its destined period, is astonishing to myself. Often 
when my situation has been as desperate, as hopeless, or 
more so, if possible, than it is at present, some unex¬ 
pected interposition of Providence has rescued me from 
a fate that has appeared inevitable. I do not particu¬ 
larly allude to recent circumstances or latter years, for 
from my earlier years I have been the child of Provi¬ 
dence—then why should I distrust its care now ? I do 
not entrust it—neither do I trust it. I feel perfectly 
unanxious, unconcerned, and indifferent as to the future ; 
but this is not trust in Providence—not that trust which 
alone claims its protection. I know this is a blamable 
indifference—it is more—for it reaches to the intermi¬ 
nable future. It turns almost with disgust from the 
bright prospects which religion offers for the consolation 
and support of the wretched, and to which I was early 
taught, by an almost adored mother, to look forward 
with hope and joy; but to me they can afford no consola¬ 
tion. Not that I doubt the sacred truths that religion 
inculcates. I cannot doubt—though I confess I have 
sometimes tried to do so, because I no longer wish for 
that immortality of which it assures us. My only wish 
now is for rest and peace—endless rest. ‘For rest—but 
not to feel ’tis rest,’ but I cannot delude myself with the 
hope that such rest will be my lot. I feel an internal 
evidence, stronger than any arguments that reason or 
religion can enforce, that I have that within me which is 
imperishable; that drew not its origin from the ‘ clod of 


452 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


the valley.’ With this conviction, but without a hope to 
brighten the prospect of that dread future,— 

* I dare not look beyond the tomb, 

Yet cannot hope for peace before.’ 

“ Such an unhappy frame of mind, I am sure, madam, 
must excite your commiseration. It is perhaps owing, in 
part at least, to the solitude in which I have lived, I may 
say, even in the midst of society, when I have mixed in 
it, as my infirmities entirely exclude me from that sweet 
intercourse of kindred spirits—that sweet solace of re¬ 
fined conversation; the little intercourse I have at any 
time with those around me cannot be termed conversa¬ 
tion,—they are not kindred spirits;—and even where 
circumstances have associated me (but rarely indeed) 
with superior and cultivated minds, who have not dis¬ 
dained to admit me to their society, they could not by 
all their generous efforts, even in early youth, lure from 
my dark soul the thoughts that loved to lie buried there, 
nor inspire me with the courage to attempt their dis¬ 
closure ; and yet of all the pleasures of polished life 
which fancy has often pictured to me in such vivid 
colors, there is not one that I have so ardently coveted 
as that sweet reciprocation of ideas, the supreme bliss of 
enlightened minds in the hour of social converse. But 
this I knew was not decreed for me,— 


4 Yet this was in my nature,—’ 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


453 


but since the loss of my hearing, I have always been 
incapable of verbal conversation. I need not, however, 
inform you, madam, of this. At the first interview with 
which you favored me, you quickly discovered my pecu¬ 
liar unhappiness in this respect: you perceived, from 
my manner, that any attempt to draw me into conversa¬ 
tion would be in vain: had it been otherwise, perhaps 
you would not have disdained now and then to have 
soothed the lonely wanderer with yours. I have some¬ 
times fancied, when I have seen you in the walk, that 
you seemed to wish to encourage me to throw myself in 
your way. Pardon me if my imagination, too apt to 
beguile me with such dear illusions, has deceived me 
into too presumptuous an idea here. You must have 
observed that I generally endeavored to avoid both you 
and Colonel Wildman. It was to spare your generous 
hearts the pain of witnessing distress you could not 
alleviate. Thus cut off, as it were, from all human so¬ 
ciety, I have been compelled to live in a world of my 
own, and certainly with the beings with which my world 
is peopled I am at no loss to converse. But, though I 
love solitude and am never in want of subjects to amuse 
my fancy, yet solitude too much indulged in must neces¬ 
sarily have an unhappy effect upon the mind, which, 
when left to seek for resources wholly within itself, will 
unavoidably, in hours of gloom and despondency, brood 
over corroding thoughts that prey upon the spirits, and 
sometimes terminate in confirmed misanthropy—espe- 


454 


CRAYON MISCELLANY . 


cially with those who, from constitution or early misfor¬ 
tunes, are inclined to melancholy, and to view human 
nature in its dark shades. And have I not cause for 
gloomy reflections ? The utter loneliness of my lot 
would alone have rendered existence a curse to one 
whose heart nature has formed glowing with all the 
warmth of social affection, yet without an object on 
which to place it—without one natural connection, one 
earthly friend to appeal to, to shield me from the con¬ 
tempt, indignities, and insults, to which my deserted 
situation continually exposed me.” 

I am giving long extracts from this letter, yet I cannot 
refrain from subjoining another letter, which depicts her 
feelings with respect to Newstead. 

“Permit me, madam, again to request your and Col¬ 
onel Wildman’s acceptance of those acknowledgments 
which I cannot too often repeat, for your unexampled 
goodness to a rude stranger. I know I ought not to have 
taken advantage of your extreme good-nature so fre¬ 
quently as I have. I should have absented myself from 
your garden during the stay of the company at the 
Abbey; but, as I knew I must be gone long before they 
would leave it, I could not deny myself the indulgence^ 
as you so freely gave me your permission to continue 
my walks ; but now they are at an end. I have taken 
my last farewell of every dear and interesting spot, which 
I now never hope to see again, unless my disembodied 
spirit may be permitted to revisit them.—Yet, oh! if 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


455 


Providence should enable me again to support myself 
with any degree of respectability, and you should grant 
me some little humble shed, with what joy shall I re¬ 
turn and renew my delightful rambles. But dear as 
Newstead is to me, I will never again come under the 
same unhappy circumstances as I have this last time— 
never without the means of at least securing myself from 
contempt. How dear, how very dear Newstead is to me, 
how unconquerable the infatuation that possesses me, I 
am now going to give a too convincing proof. In offer¬ 
ing to your acceptance the worthless trifles that will 
accompany this, I hope you will believe that I have no 
view to your amusement. I dare not hope that the con¬ 
sideration of their being the products of your own gar¬ 
den, and most of them written there, in my little tablet, 
while sitting at the foot of my Altar —I could not, I can¬ 
not resist the earnest desire of leaving this memorial of 
the many happy hours I have there enjoyed. Oh! do 
not reject them, madam; suffer them to remain with you; 
and if you should deign to honor them with a perusal, 
when you read them, repress, if you can, the smile that 
I know will too naturally arise when you recollect the 
appearance of the wretched being who has dared to de¬ 
vote her whole soul to the contemplation of such more 
than human excellence. Yet ridiculous as such devotion 
may appear to some, I must take leave to say, that, if 
the sentiments which I have entertained for that exalted 
being could be duly appreciated, I trust they would be 


456 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


found to be of such a nature as is no dishonor even for 
him to have inspired.” .... 

“ I am now coming to take a last, last view of scenes 
too deeply impressed upon my memory ever to be 
effaced even by madness itself. 0 madam! may you 
never know, nor be able to conceive the agony I endure 
in tearing myself from all that the world contains of 
dear and sacred to me : the only spot on earth where I 
can ever hope for peace or comfort.—May every bless¬ 
ing the world has to bestow attend you, or, rather, may 
you long, long live in the enjoyment of the delights of 
your own paradise, in secret seclusion from a world that 
has no real blessings to bestow. Now I go;—but O 
might I dare to hope that, when you are enjoying these 
blissful scenes, a thought of the unhappy wanderer 
might sometimes cross your mind, how soothing would 
such an idea be, if I dared to indulge it;—could you see 
my heart at this moment, how needless would it be to 
assure you of the respectful gratitude, the affectionate 
esteem, this heart must ever bear you both.” 

The effect of this letter upon the sensitive heart of Mrs. 
Wildman may be more readily conceived than expressed. 
Her first impulse was to give a home to this poor home¬ 
less being, and to fix her in the midst of those scenes 
which formed her earthly paradise. She communicated 
Her wishes to Colonel Wildman, and they met with an 
immediate response in his generous bosom. It was 
settled on the spot, that an apartment should be fitted 



NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


457 


up for the Little White Lady in one of the new farm¬ 
houses, and every arrangement made for her comfortable 
and permanent maintenance on the estate. With a wo¬ 
man’s prompt benevolence, Mrs. Wildman, before she 
laid her head upon her pillow, wrote the following letter 
to the destitute stranger :— 

“Newstead Abbey, Tuesday night, Sept. 20th, 1825. 

“ On retiring to my bedchamber this evening I have 
opened your letter, and cannot lose a moment in express¬ 
ing to you the strong interest which it has excited both 
in Colonel Wildman and myself, from the details of your 
peculiar situation, and the delicate, and, let me add, 
elegant language in which they are conveyed. I am 
anxious that my note should reach you previous to your 
departure from this neighborhood, and should be truly 
happy if, by any arrangement for your accommodation, I 
could prevent the necessity of your undertaking the jour¬ 
ney. Colonel Wildman begs me to assure you that he 
will use his best exertion in the investigation of those 
matters which you have confided to him, and should you 
remain here at present, or return again after a short 
absence, I trust we shall find means to become better 
acquainted, and to convince you of the interest I feel, 
and the real satisfaction it would afford me to con¬ 
tribute in any way to your comfort and happiness. I 
will only now add my thanks for the little packet which 
I received with your letter, and I must confess that the 


458 


CRAYON MISCELLANY. 


letter lias so entirely engaged my attention, that I have 
not as yet had time for the attentive perusal of its com¬ 
panion. 

“Believe me, dear madam, 

“ with sincere good wishes, 

“ Yours truly, 

“ Louisa Wildman.” 

Early the next morning a servant was dispatched 
with the letter to the Weir Mill farm, but returned 
with the information that the Little White Lady had 
set off, before his arrival, in company with the farmer’s 
wife, in a cart for Nottingham, to take her place in 
the coach for London. Mrs. Wildman ordered him to 
mount horse instantly, follow with all speed, and de¬ 
liver the letter into her hand before the departure of the 
coach. 

The bearer of good tidings spared neither whip nor 
spur, and arrived at Nottingham on a gallop. On enter¬ 
ing the town, a crowd obstructed him in the principal 
street. He checked his horse to make his way through 
it quietly. As the crowd opened to the right and left, 
he beheld a human body lying on the pavement. It 
was the corpse of the Little White Lady! 

It seems, that, on arriving in town and dismounting 
from the cart, the farmer’s wife had parted with her to go 
on an errand, and the Little White Lady continued on 
toward the coach-office. In crossing a street, a cart 


NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 


459 


came along, driven at a rapid rate. The driver called 
out to her, but she was too deaf to hear his voice or the 
rattling of his cart. In an instant she was knocked 
down by the horse, the wheels passed over her body, 
and she died without a groan. 


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